


Swiss dreams

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Getting Together, Intersex, M/M, Writer Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Crowley finally gets to meet his editor, Ezra.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reupload.

The village was not that small, if one judged by its size on the map of the area. Yet the houses stood far one from the other, and Anthony Crowley's house was the farthest from all the houses, hidden behind an apple orchard which turned into a garden which turned into a vegetable garden which faced the house, a modern building, all sleek and angular and monochrome, just like the owner, whose only spots of colour were his red hair and yellow light-sensitive, colourblind eyes.

_ What colour are your eyes angel? Blue my dear. How… What is blue? How… how does it taste? Like water, very cold, very still. You never look cold, angel. But you are still… And how does it sound, blue? Like Beethoven's Fifth, the third movement. How does it smell? I don't know, my dear. Well, then I say it smells like you. You, my angel, smell blue. It's delicious, and so are you. _

Anthony Crowley always answered his fan mail. Reporters, journalists, interviewers be damned, along with publicity tours and autograph sessions. But he'd always sign a book sent to him and mail it back. He was thirty when he won his first Booker for the novel he had been writing since his early twenties. It was an enormous book written in the style of  _ 1000 and 1 night _ , with stories spreading from other stories and then opening into more stories within, just like his garden. The premise was that two people were stuck in a small sanatorium up in the mountains because of an avalanche. It was never specified who or what they were, their personal histories barely there, but they spent their time telling each other stories. It must have taken them several years to do so, but time was of no consequence either. Through it all, through various games with mythology, religion, philosophy, one thing remained clear and almost tangible in its tenderness - their connection. What they told each other was wonderful, fantastic, entertaining, thought-provoking, but bits of their presumably empty and unimportant conversations were full of peculiar yearning, slowly born of the endless time of their waiting. The final chapters left the ending open, along with the endings of several interwoven stories. Little was known of Crowley's background, but the man must have been living in the Bodleian library 24/7 for many a year.

_ I would sneak there all the time, every minute, and on Saturdays I wrote. I knew what I wanted, angel. I wanted you. Had to woo you, so I started this Bahamut, my pure white whale… Such a bad Jew, darling, writing on Saturdays. I worked and read any other day, it was my way of observing Shabat. And you. Blasphemy, my dear.  _

The first success bought Crowley freedom. He moved to Switzerland, to Sils Maria and nothing would lure him out. As for the creative freedom, he went properly insane. His second novel was about a sentient museum. The artifacts remained inanimate, mind you, but the mischievous building rearranged itself constantly, would move overnight wherever it wished, and in the end was just hopelessly in love with its curator. They ended up together, happily ever after. For all the ludicrousness of the premise, the book was an even bigger success than the first one. The third one was a love story told by a garden. The fourth one was a brilliant treatise on the history of botany. The fifth was about museums, his biggest book, and just like the fourth, "the leftovers of my research". 

Ezra Fell knew it because he had been Crowley's editor and book supplier. It all worked out in a rather nepotistic manner, to be honest. Crowley had a friend, a cut-throat lawyer by the name of Gabriel Fell, who was Ezra's much younger brother. Once Crowley finished his first novel, it only seemed natural to Gabriel to pass the manuscript on to his intelligent brother who ran a bookshop specialising in all sorts of what Gabriel called "peculiar book stuff". Gabriel was Crowley's first reader and fan, and Ezra was the second. Gabriel had been representing Crowley since he gained a right to represent anybody, and he had the book published. His spouse, Bea, the only person more cut-throat than Gabriel at least this side of the world, studied cinema, so when Crowley was approached with an offer to adapt his first novel for the small screen, Crowley was adamant that Bea would write it. Bea ended up writing, directing, producing it and harvesting a nice bunch of Emmys. Bea was Crowley's third reader and third fan. After that one lost count.

Having moved to Sils Maria, Crowley apparently discovered that it had no Bodleian and "bugger Google doesn't have everything", so Gabriel let it slip that his brother (Gabriel was in awe of his brother, and spouse, and brilliant friend) dealt in "peculiar book stuff", and Ezra began receiving emails like "I want everything about plants, scientific stuff, modern and positively Medieval, flower language and suchlike too, thank you so much". He paid generously and never accepted any arguments. For example, "I know that it's a shitty book, Ezra, I'm not blind (he might as well have been, only Ezra didn't know it yet), but it inspired me and gave me an idea… so please, take the money and stop driving my bank crazy." Afterwards Crowley returned the book. Ezra had learned not to argue but thanked him all the same. The reply was immediate and short: "Shut up!"

Gabriel represented Crowley through thick and thin (mostly thick), and pushed everyone who wanted to work with Crowley into accepting Crowley's conditions which were: no direct contact with anyone but Gabriel, no publicity tours, no autograph sessions, no arguments with Ezra Fell (Gabriel doubled the efforts at that point; also at that point the other side of negotiations was in dire need of defibrillator and holiday), no interviews, no changing of genders, no cuttings, no, no, no, yes to a good sum of money. By that part of the negotiations they were ready to pay any sum of money just to make Gabriel leave.

Ezra had never met Crowley, neither had Bea. Crowley could barely tolerate Gabriel, yet none of the three had ever doubted Crowley's kindness. He kick-started their careers (Ezra became the beloved editor of a bunch of intellectuals), he always helped them, he always sent them presents for every major holiday, Jewish or otherwise, or just "saw it, reminded me of you, here you are, shut up". Crowley only wanted his house, his garden, his Bentley (which he used solely for shopping trips) and above all his writing. This arrangement lasted for 15 years, and nobody expected it to change, least of all Ezra, who sympathised with Crowley's desire to be left alone and sometimes envied him. 

Yet one day in October Gabriel arrived at Ezra's shop, smiled, sneered, sneezed, praised Bea and said, "Crowley said he wants to meet you. Said he wastes too much time writing to you or something like that, I just think he's going bonkers up there in the Alps. He has a nice place, no doubt. Never been there, though. Anyway, he wanted me to ask you carefully ("carefully" and Gabriel got along as well as oil and water, and they never met in the same sentence), if you'd be amenable."

"He… never wrote about it." Reminisced Ezra.

"Listen, I know his letters, they are strictly to the point. Now, this point is too sensitive for him."

"Why not you or Bea or both of you?"

"Because, and I quote, you "seem to enjoy peace and tranquility as much as he does"."

"Insightful."

"Look, you've moved your business online, you are just as much of a hermit as Crowley is. Apparently he wants to meet another hermit. Share stories about… hermiting. And you haven't taken a holiday since Moses took us out of Egypt."

Regretfully and per usual, Gabriel was right. 

_ I really didn't know what I was doing. I was drunk and I thought, my, my, my, I've never met my editor, and I begin to forget how to talk to people, so how about I pretend to be hospitable and nice to another recluse? Thank you, darling. My pleasure, angel. I'm so glad I was drunk that night. I'm so glad you came.  _

_ *** _

Gabriel left in the flurry of sheer awesomeness and with a great sense of purpose (he was running around looking for an anniversary gift for Bea, and they weren't easily pleased; theirs was a happy marriage, although Ezra and the whole family had yet to see a conversation between them where either party didn't refer to each other as "the opposition", also one calm interaction would be nice at least during Seder Pesach), and Ezra sat by his computer and the computer announced that he had a new email. The email said:

_ Hello, Ezra. I'm sorry for such a messy invitation, I was really scared you'd refuse it, and then I realised that I practically ensured your refusal. You've been my editor and an invaluable one since the start. I owe my success to you as much as to your brother, so I thought, why don't we meet? It's nice here, and from what I understood from Gabriel, you cherish peace and quiet just as I do. I guess I wanted to thank you for everything you've been doing for me, and I know that you get much less out of it than either Gabriel or I. I'm sending you a plane ticket with an open date. If you accept this shitty excuse for invitation, I mean.  _

Ezra smiled. Crowley's letters had always been a lot shorter ("right, agreed, but please let's make sure that mess of a tale in chapter 40 remains the same, it was on purpose, so there must be a way to make it better, thank you"; "agreed, brilliant"; "absolutely not but I'll hear you out"; a rare poetic "you're fucking awesome"; occasional misused emojis: "aubergine is a fucking disaster of a vegetable and it's my opinion of your opinion and not a dick, shut up"), the man must have made quite the effort to write something longer that didn't involve meticulous research or peculiar plot or a heartbreaking plotline involving a spade and a jasmine (Ezra cried, Gabriel cried, Bea cried, Ezra's mother cried, Ezra's nephews found it hilarious and then cried because the adults scolded them). Only Crowley could pull off things like that so well, that nobody but children would laugh. 

_ Well, I meant it as funny, angel, but not because it's an instrument and a plant. They yearn for each other, I wanted distilled yearning. You've accomplished it, my dear. And mind you, angel, children shouldn't yearn, if they do, then the social services should be contacted. _

Ezra replied immediately. A holiday would be nice and meeting Crowley would be at the very least interesting.

_ Hello, my dear. I was rather surprised to see a proper letter from you. I need a couple of days to wrap things up and then I'm at your disposal for  _

"For how long?" Asked Ezra of the screen.

_ as long as you can tolerate me. Thank you so much for your invitation, it was very kind of you. Could you please send me your address? _

Crowley replied the following day.

_ Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shuttity shut the fuck up. I'm not kind. I can't say how long I will be able to tolerate company, it's been a while. I'll pick you up at the airport, then it's a long drive from Zürich to Sils Maria, so how about we have lunch? What do you eat? Do you eat? It's supposed to be raining cats and dogs in Zürich for the whole week, so you'll recognise me as the only stupid bugger wearing sunglasses. See you soon. And thank you. _

Ezra frowned and wondered,  _ sunglasses? _

_ Yeah. I'm light-sensitive and colourblind. Still wanna come? _

_ Why shouldn't I, my dear? How do you read and write, if I may ask? _

_ With difficulty, Ezra. It's a bloody nightmare but that's what I like to do and bugger my eyes. _

_ So, would you like me to bring you some books? Now I'm feeling like Tomás de Torquemada. _

_ Big bugger he was. Right. No, just you know, bring yourself. Fuck. _

***

Two days later Ezra got off the plane in Zürich, and could indeed attest that it was raining cats, dogs, fish and some water in between. He picked up his modest luggage (the man must have a washing machine, after all, besides, large luggage would imply a long stay, and Ezra didn't want to impose). The light in the building appeared blinding against the grey sky, and darker than the sky, in the miscellaneous crowd, stood a tall and lean man dressed in tight black everything, with shoulder-length copper red hair and small round sunglasses. He seemed relaxed and a bit bored, although he could barely stay still without moving his head or swaying his hips. Then his head moved sharply and despite the glasses Ezra knew the man was looking at him.

_ I stood there, bored and scared, and I saw you. I've never seen colours, Ezra, but you seemed to radiate colours, you were so beautiful, I prayed that my editor had been that man, with his kind gentle face, a ghost of confused smile on his lips… I just knew it was you, my dear.  _

"Hello," said Ezra.

"Hi," replied Crowley. 

"You must be Crowley. I'm Ezra." They shook hands.

"Hi," repeated Crowley. "How… how was your flight?"

"Very pleasant, thank you."

"Pleasant? I've never heard someone referring to their flight as "pleasant"."

"Well, my dear, you bought me a ticket for the first-class, so it was enlightening, if not terribly embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Come along, Ezra." Crowley swiftly took Ezra's bag and walked forward while Ezra was still recovering from the loss of his luggage.

_ I wasn't recovering from anything! I've just met you, I could barely breathe. And you took my bag. Why, sorry, angel, but you see, I've just met you and I wanted to… court you? No, not there yet. I wanted to impress you. You succeeded, I was very impressed, darling. _

"I made a reservation in a nice kosher sushi place, it's twenty something minutes from here… You didn't answer what you eat. Or whether you eat. So I had to call Gabriel…"

"Oh dear. I'm very sorry for what you must have heard…"

"No, Ezra, he should be sorry. I'm not talking to him, and he's called me seventy eight times so far. Texted two hundred times, emailed about fifty times. Tried to call me from Bea's phone…"

"My dear, you are rather wicked. And however he phrased it, as you can see there's truth to his words."

"First," Crowley tossed Ezra's bag on the backseat of an old Bentley and opened the door for Ezra, "nobody talks like that about my editor. Second," he slithered around the car and sat behind the wheel, everything without even turning his head towards his editor, "nobody talks like that about their brother. I don't have any, and even I know it. Third," Crowley started the car and drove them out of the parking lot and straight into grey ghostly Zürich, "what the fuck does it mean… I mean all the stupid stuff he said. I've known you for fifteen years and seen you for fifteen minutes, and I think you are… you know, you still haven't told me anything about the food. Do you like sushi? Me, I like sushi. Big sushi fan, me. So, what say you?"

"Sushi sounds lovely, my dear."

"See, good. Splendid. Fuck."

"Dear, are you sure you are the brilliant inventive writer I've had the good fortune to work with? Because nothing in your speech betrays it."

"I'm a recluse. I'm… misdirecting, everybody, it even works on you."

_ What did you want to tell me? Wanted to tell you I liked you instantly. That you don't have to lose the gut, that you are indeed soft and I totally love it. I didn't want to quote Gabriel, though. Or tell you how much I like you. Angel, please, stop embarrassing me! My dear, is it news to you that you are naked right now? No, it's not, but talking is different. Words are sacred. I'm definitely not. I think you are, my dear. You are sacred to me, and not because of your words, darling. Could you please come out of hiding? Your breath is really tickling… oh, darling, come on, you can't stay hidden in my neck forever!.. What do you mean "watch me"? That's the problem, dearest, I can't watch you. _

"Sushi, yes. I like avocado and mushroom rolls, and spicy salmon. Yeah, those are my favourites… What the fuck?" Crowley raised his head and saw Ezra speaking with the waiter in perfect Swiss Deutsch. They were currently discussing chef's recommendations.

"Alright, yes, sure… " Crowley switched to Swiss Deutsch himself and shamelessly interrupted Ezra's conversation with the waiter to demand the whole roll section. 

"Any more surprises, Ezra?"

"That was very rude, my dear."

"And making eyes at you wasn't? At least they're proper eyes, alright, I can give him that…" Crowley leaned back in his chair and sprawled all over it.

_ Whatever for you said that, my dear? I don't know, angel, it just escaped me. I couldn't be jealous, I absolutely understand how smitten that waiter was. I understand everyone who's smitten with you, but you are my editor, and I wanted you to be my friend too. Really, my dear? Friend? I couldn't just mentally undress and ravish you, could I? My dear, I'm severely disappointed in you! _

"Judging by your attention to detail, your eyes are more than proper, my dear. They definitely do more than see."

"I'm being obnoxious here, Ezra, please, be scandalised… I live up to that Wilde's aphorism, right? About writers being much more boring in person."

"He said that about good writers, my dear, and you are more than good."

"Alright, Ezra, either you are an angel or just too disappointed to admit it."

"If that's the choice, I'm an angel."

Crowley looked at Ezra, or so Ezra thought, and laughed heartily.

"Angel, I believe the food is here."

"Should I calm your nerves and break the waiter's heart?"

"Ehm… if you can do…"

Ezra smiled and covered Crowley's hand with his own. 

"Sweetheart, I'm so happy here with you," he said in German without missing a bit or letting his pronunciation slip. Crowley froze, and so did the waiter.

_ Then I knew you were a bit of a bastard. You are absolutely fantastic, angel. My gorgeous, naughty angel… I just didn't want to see you all worked up, my dear. And I didn't want you to be embarrassed. He seemed a very lascivious type. Darling, it's so good that I have you to always take care of my virtues. The dinner was marvelous, wasn't it? Of course it was, angel. It was out first. _

The rain stopped, but Zürich kept frowning at them. Crowley started the car again and they set off for their long drive. It was getting darker, and everything was quiet and tired. For a while they remained silent.

"Want music, angel?"

"Whatever you wish, Crowley."

Crowley turned the radio on, fiddled with it a bit looking for a particular station, apparently, and stopped when Vivaldi filled the car with all the impossible yearning of Winter. 

"Lovely…" Ezra sighed, closed his eyes and wiggled a little, getting more comfortable. 

_ I felt… I felt like… like a dragon. A dragon, my dear? Yes. And you were my treasure, you've always been my treasure. To cherish and protect and let go off at the first request. Anthony, my dearest love, you are not a proper dragon. Maybe I'm the only proper dragon there is, angel. I must admit I felt safe and protected with you for an hour or so. Then you got tired, and I felt it, acutely, how much I want to cherish and protect you, to hold you. To keep you company and scare away anything that dares touch you. I'm much older, my darling, more experienced with scaring away… Shut it, angel. Only if you kiss me. _

"Tell me about yourself, angel."

"There's not much to tell. We're a good old-fashioned Jewish family. Gabriel has always been mother's favourite, but Gabriel thinks it's me, and I guess we'll never know the truth. I came out early, father was the only one who was surprised, but he said it didn't change a thing anyway. Went to Oxford, Trinity college. Gave it up after two years and opened my bookshop."

_ Speaking of dragons, my dear, I opened my bookshop to keep the treasure and deal in it. Ah, nonsense, angel. You were a godsend to students, researchers, and most importantly, me. That I was, darling, that I was. _

"Everything went on pretty uneventfully, until Gabriel sent me your book."

"I do hope I'm not the main event of your life. It would be demeaning."

"I don't know, my dear. When I was in love, I thought that the love had been the main event. When I was lonely and bitter, I still thought so… Getting to work with you was remarkable, and definitely the best event of my life."

"Ok, I'll settle for the best, angel. I'm ready to be the best and not the main and therefore second best."

"How very kind of you."

_ What else did we talk about, angel? I don't remember. I can't remember. I think we just… relished in each other's company or were just too tired for anything. Or I want to remember it that way, so that I can fish out of my memory premonitions, signs, little clues that what we are now… like, there can be just one straight line between two points and endless number of curved lines… we took the most ridiculous one, alright, but when I look back, I see so many… mischievous details that look and sound differently now, and you know, angel, those details have a life of their own. Your pensive nod when you agreed with some meaningless remark I made is madly in love with … with what, angel? With your laughter, the first time I heard it. See? And my grumpy jealousy is in love with your mischievous wink at the waiter. It's fractals, angel. However close you look at us, you see that each one of my moments is in love with each one of yours. I look at us very closely, my dear. And, and you know, each following moment of mine falls in love with each one of yours. The tiniest, still undiscovered particles of me, within those already discovered, all of them love those particles within you.  _

Garden lights were dim, but Ezra noticed how Crowley winced when they drove into the orchard, then garden, then vegetable garden. They stopped by the house, dimly lit as well. There was some divine sparkle to the sensors that lit the garden and the house when the car approached. Not divine per se, but sensors seemed just that, sensitive to their movements, and Ezra was perfectly attuned to them too.

Inside there were all shades of black, grey and white, and nothing else, if not for a vase of freshly cut flowers in Ezra's bedroom. Crowley opened the bathroom door and lit the lights there as well. 

"I know, it's all too dim for you. It must be dim for you, but there's a remote," he handed the remote to Ezra. "Adjust it as you like, and the whole floor is yours, you know… want me to show you around? Or are you too tired in general and of me in particular?"

"A proper gentleman would never refuse a bait like that my dear." Ezra coughed and spoke in an over-the-top polite way, "Sure, my dear, aren't you ridiculous, pardon my wording. I can never tire of your company. Please, do show me around."

"Ok, Ezra, now speak like a proper bastard."

"I'd like to have a look?"

"More bastardly, please."

"Show me the fuck around, Crowley?"

"Yes, there it is! Aren't you an angel?"

"I believe you've mentioned I am. My dear."

Crowley giggled and walked out of the room. Ezra heard his voice from the hall calling him. 

_ I don't think I will ever be able to refuse your call, darling. Glad to hear it, angel. Come, Ezra, walk with me. _

The long hall ended abruptly opening into the library, that began below them and was all around them. 

"Astonishing… stunning…" Ezra walked forward, stepping on a light bridge of metal and glass and taking an admiring look around. "My dear… this is splendid…"

"Well, at least half of it is you, but yeah, I hoped you'd like it. I doubt I will be able to share it with you, the light must be too dim…"

"It's perfect. No library should be properly lit. I won't touch a thing here, I mean I will touch the books, but not the lights. It's your kingdom, my dear, and since it's your land, your castle, your library, then the rules are yours as well. How about we have dinner?"

Crowley chuckled. 

"What would you like, angel… oh fuck, shit, I'm sorry! Fuck!"

"It's alright. Stop cursing. Would you like me too cook? You've been driving for almost three hours. Let me do something."

"Ehm… I love breakfast for dinner… I guess. You don't have to…"

"Crepes it is then. Come, show me the kitchen."

_ You'll make crepes many times more, angel, but never like those first. They melted in my mouth, they really did. So, are you saying I served you enchanted crepes? You did, angel. God Almighty, you did. _

The crepes were followed by a very good red wine, and the conversation became dominated by Swiss wines for a while, then shifted into utter drunk rubbish, then ran its course and was replaced with companionable silence.

"Thank you, my dear," said Ezra finally. The room was mostly dark, the world ended in darkness behind the French windows. An occasional breath of wind shook the trees and bushes and then there was rustling and sleepy shuffling, but nothing could be seen, at least not with Ezra's  _ proper  _ eyes. He turned to look at Crowley. The man was unashamedly staring at him and Ezra smiled. His smile faded though, as he had seen, for the first time, the colour of Crowley's eerily unmoving eyes. Aging gold, pale fire… for fuck's sake, they were Crowley's eyes, and… and…

"Your eyes are beautiful, my dear."

"Oh… thank you. I mean, sorry. I should…" Crowley was about to grab his glasses, but drunken Ezra stopped his hand with his. 

"No, don't cover them. They are beautiful."

"They don't do what they have to!" Crowley spat out bitterly.

"So what? They are beautiful, and I'll read to you…" Ezra knew, however faintly, that he was just waxing poetic, but it felt right.

"What colour are they?" Crowley asked out of the blue.

"Oh… they… they are yellow… Royal yellow, gold yellow… stupid me, I'm so sorry, my dear. It's… it's…"

"How does it taste, angel?"

"Like… like lemon curd. Like chardonnay."

"And… how does it sound?"

"Like oboe."

"How does it… feel?"

"Warm. Familiar, somewhat. Dear."

"Seems… nice."

"No, it's much more than nice. So much more, my dear."

"How does it smell?"

Ezra moved closer to Crowley and took a deep breath.

"Like you, I guess. Yes, definitely like you."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_ Crowley's "Curator's curious tale": _

_ Each wall of the museum knew it, each door woke up and opened and windows flattered and the artifacts were being moved around in the most mischievous manner, and all because every day at seven fully awakened Curator walked through the front doors, blue and brown, sleepy but alert. Curator would gently touch the door knob and whisper some sweet morning nonsense and look around in mock anger having noticed the rearranged statues and Picasso mysteriously appearing in the ancient Egypt department of all places. Curator never got angry with the museum and fully embraced its naughty nature, although the first time the museum was particularly naughty and just moved to a forest in Umbria because whyever not, the birds there deserved to meet Curator, the human was a bit surprised but appreciated the gesture in the end. Curator looked fragile in the morning light, which made the museum worried for many years, but in the end the museum learned to accept it. The museum learned to accept that disappearing a nasty visitor or an employee who had upset Curator was unacceptable.  _

_ Why did you remember that, angel? -- It's a very morning novel, my dear, and this opening paragraph, it's just like a happy morning, like a morning with you, and I'm about to reminisce about our very first morning together. You said so yourself, you fish premonitions and signs out of your memory, and that's what I'm doing now. Convincing? -- Guess so, angel. What does make a morning happy? -- Depends on the morning. But the opening sentences of "Curator's Curious Tale" is like opening your eyes and jumping, rushing headlong into what feels like the happiest, the most important and beautiful day of your life. I used to wake up thinking about it quite often. Now I have you for lazy awakenings, for slow re-emerging from my dreams that can't hold a candle to what I wake up to. -- Hush, angel, you're making me all… wobbly. And wibbly. -- Oh dear, why would I do that? -- Gonna hide in your neck again. -- No, dearest, please, no, it tickles… Anthony! _

Ezra woke up to the sun, cool, nay cold fresh air and Allegro of the first Brandenburg concerto. 

_ It's not Allegro, angel, it's played at Allegro or Allegro moderato. -- Darling, couldn't you please stop interrupt me? Or at least interrupt me with something pleasant? -- Like what, angel? -- You shameless flirt! Like a kiss. Or a slice of lox that you tend to push down my mouth with the same passion you have pushing your tongue. -- I'm not a shameless flirt, I'm a pile of goo, and you are a bastard. -- A bit. Guilty as charged.  _

The opening notes of it had always given Ezra the impression of a flower greeting the first rays of sun and blooming greedily into it. As it happened, flowers in Crowley's conservatory, that conquered and claimed most of the ground floor, were doing just that, and as for their lord and gardener, he stood by the window with something in his hands and was looking at the cold morning being a cruel Autumn lover to his garden and having robbed the orchard of all its greenery. It beamed down and gave no warmth, just the pale yellow light which made the emptying and sleepy garden look wistful. 

Crowley turned around to greet Ezra, a steaming mug in his hand.

"Morning, angel. How are you? Paracetamol?"

"Tea would be nice," replied Ezra.

"Have a seat, I'll make you some. Which do you prefer this time of day?"

"For now, Darjeeling and make it strong as death."

"And cruel as grave?"

"Might as well be."

"Ok, one cupful of Song of Solomon coming up." Crowley was still wearing his bed clothes, nothing tight, but still black. Sweatpants and shirt much too big for Crowley, making him an apparition. 

"What would you like to do today, angel? I could show you around… The weather is not very inviting, but it could be a nice walk. Or we could just sit and you know, do nothing."

For a start, they had breakfast. Crowley cooked, and Ezra ate. Then they indeed sat together and did nothing. They went out for a walk, and even had enough time to walk around the garden, the orchard and vegetable garden, all sleepy and disheveled.

"I hate Autumn," confessed Crowley.

"Why, my dear?"

"Too many colours, and even I can tell there are too many, and I've read enough descriptions of Autumn to know how much I'm missing… Like, what the fuck is red? What is burgundy red? What is copper red?"

"You," replied Ezra quickly.

"What, me?"

"Copper red. Your hair is copper red."

"Really?"

"Very much so. Fact."

"Nothing about the way we perceive colour is a fact, angel."

"Well, it is to me when it comes to the colour of your hair."

"Interesting… I licked copper, I know how it tastes. I know how it smells. And sounds. Am I that much of a brass?"

"Oh no, my dear, you're mostly viola da gamba."

"Oh… That's… that's nice, I guess."

"More than so."

_ You were flirting, angel? -- Was I? Dear oh dear. How very nasty of me. I shouldn't have. I should have hidden my attraction, like you hid yours. -- I didn't hide a thing! I was calling you angel, for fuck's sake! -- I thought you were mocking me. -- Couldn't it have been both, my angel? -- I will understand it, eventually. I'll get used to it. -- And you kept calling me my dear! -- I call everyone my dear, but you are the only one who has been dear since I've met you. _

The rain began without a warning, and before they made it back into the house, they were both soaking wet and breathing hard and laughing like loons.

"It all went down like a lead balloon," said Crowley peeling his cardigan off of his body and almost doing the same with his shirt, but stopped and blushed. "What do you want to do now?"

"Take a shower, put something dry on and bury myself in your library… I'd love it if you kept me company."

"I'd love that too, angel. Hot wine?"

"It's barely ten in the morning! Really, my dear…"

"It doesn't answer my question, angel."

"Alright, bugger that. Hot wine."

They separated for half an hour of frenzied showers and dressing up and Ezra found the laundry room, and met Crowley there. There was some terribly confusing and awkward fiddling around the washing machine, and "don't touch my dirty laundry" and "I'm not touching anything" and "this is not the right programme, angel" and "oh whatever you choose, my dear". In the end they sat side by side on a comfortable couch in the library. Ezra had every intention to work or at least to read something new, but he couldn't resist Crowley's books.

"Come, angel, you must know them all by heart. Aren't you sick of them?"

"Don't be a brat, Crowley, I'll read anything I want."

"But you've read me! I'm not even that good without you!"

"Lucky me, they publish you only after my work with you is done."

"And I'm being a brat? You just want to embarrass me!"

"Am I succeeding?"

"Quite! And to think I thought you were an angel!"

"First, I'm not happy if I succeeded in embarrassing you. Second, I did want to prove you wrong."

"I'm going to water the flowers and replace those in your room. I'm terribly disappointed, angel!"

Crowley was gone in a moment, and Ezra opened Crowley's first novel. It was such a treasury of strange, peculiar tales, that Ezra got lost in its glory before he knew it. After some consideration he chose what had always been his favourite part of the book…  _ Despite all the privileges and pleasures his position implied, the Prince was never arrogant or lascivious or greedy or the worst, bored. His father was a wise man, his wisdom being that he was able to recognize a far sharper mind of his consort, and so the Queen raised her only child the way she wanted and the King could not have been happier with his heir who inherited his mother’s intelligence and his father’s generosity.  _

_ The Prince dutifully married the princess he had been arranged to marry before either of them had been born, but the princess had been spoilt by her family and turned out to be capricious and the worst, bored. She dutifully gave birth to a son and a daughter. The son she dropped into the pond she was sitting by crocheting, and the daughter set herself on fire when she was trying to light the candle, her mother too distressed after her brother’s death to notice and the nurses too busy with the Princess. The Prince who had been forbidden by his wife to show overt interest in his children before they reach a certain age, almost went mad with grief and guilt, and the Princess became numb and slowly faded away and quietly died far from her unloved and unloving husband.  _

_ Boredom, thought the Prince, and hated himself for this thought, boredom was the reason for all this grief. Had his wife been less bored, she would have known to enjoy the life in all its complexity, she would have understood the importance of getting to know her husband, of letting him share with her the children the Prince had genuinely loved. _

_ The Queen who disapproved of the match from the very beginning but agreed to it all the same for political reasons, considered her daughter in law a misfortunate simpleton but her heart ached for her son’s loss. The King was too shocked to share anyone’s pain and asked for understanding of his grief after which the Queen stopped talking to him and never said a word to her spouse till the day he died.  _

_ Somehow it made the Prince love and ache with love for his parents, for his mercilessly noble mother.  _

_ Once, several years after the tragedy, already a king, the Prince was hunting or rather watching his new bride hunt (and seriously considering cancelling the engagement). Suddenly the hunt came by a calm garden, so peaceful and serene that the Prince could not resist getting away from everyone and entered the garden alone. _

_ An old man came out of the house hidden behind the trees, to greet the royal guest. The Prince complimented the garden and remarked that he had never seen such peculiar flowers.  _

_ The old man looked at the Prince with pain and despair the Prince knew only too well. _

_ "Who did you lose?" _

_ "My wife." _

_ The Prince couldn't say anything, or rather he did not want to bother the old man with his words, however eloquent and well chosen. _

_ "What is your name?" inquired the Prince after a few moments of solemn silence. _

_ "I am Amati, your grace." _

_ "The master Amati! But… I'm so honoured to meet you!" _

_ "The honour and pleasure are mine, your grace." _

_ "I have a lute and an archlute and a viola da gamba, all yours… " _

_ "And I have this estate precisely because of that." _

_ "You put it to very good use, master." _

_ "Thank you, your grace. Do you play them or just own them, if I may be so rude to ask?" _

_ "Your instruments require an equal, a partner, and I managed to convince only viola da gamba that I was worthy." _

_ "Interesting… How brilliantly you described them, my instruments. My very best ones I made in the first bliss of my short marriage." _

_ "Was your short marriage happy?" _

_ "Oh yes! Alma was a scientist, anatomy was her passion… I love that you didn't give me a surprised or rather shocked glance." _

_ "Who am I to judge your love? Who am I to judge an intellect for inhabiting a woman's body? Who am I to judge a woman for her intelligence?" _

_ "You are indeed as rumour has it, wise, old before your time and impeccably kind. What can I do for you?" _

_ "A theorbo."  _

_ Suddenly the Prince realised they were sitting in a gazebo, wine and fruit in front of them. _

_ "How… How did we end up here?" _

_ "We walked." _

_ "Was I conscious?"  _

_ "Of course you were. I'm only worried about your courtiers…" _

_ "Oh, you shouldn't, they'd only benefit from looking for me. The flowers here I recognise. Those I saw before struck me as strange and even otherworldly." _

_ "I buried my wife there, the flowers grew over her grave and someday I will drown in their smell." _

_ "You didn't plant them?" _

_ "No. It must have had something to do with my wife's illness, I reckon, but she is not here to explain it to me. You wanted a theorbo." _

_ "And a price worthy of the instrument I want." _

_ "Theorbo in itself is a remarkable invention, but apparently you want something entirely special." _

_ "I want a theorbo you made." _

_ "I have made some." _

_ "Yes, but by the time I had come by them, I learned that I had to convince them, to charm them, and I couldn't." _

_ "Like people, some instruments are not meant for certain musicians. The chemistry is missing, as is my wife who could have explained it less vulgarly." _

_ "Indeed. Although my musical talent is limited at best." _

_ "Which instruments do you have? Mine always have names." _

_ "Lorenzo, Tomas and Timoteo." _

_ "You only play Tomas, don't you?" _

_ "I do." _

_ "Tomas has always been picky, even as a tree, but there always was a reason for this. Tomas chose you and loved you and I very much approve of the choice." _

_ "The price." _

_ "Careful, my Prince, or I'll think that you don't enjoy my company." _

_ "I am enjoying your company, but the moment someone finds me I want to send them to fetch anything you want." _

_ "No need, my Prince. The price is high and though I admire your persistence and generosity, I would like to state it first, because it might appear too high." _

_ "I'm listening. You sound very… ungodly, you know." _

_ "Nothing divine in my life for many years. Nothing godly in my craft for many years. You yourself noticed the flowers. But enough of this, you look scared and rightfully so. How I love a man brave enough to be openly scared! Would you be the same in front of your court? Your new young bride?" _

_ "I very much hope so." _

_ "Your grace, I will make a theorbo for you and my price is the following. I have a child, a daughter who grew up with me and who I made every effort to teach everything her mother would have wanted her to learn. In the absence of other companions she herself became a formidable musician. She will bring you your theorbo, and you will keep her at your side at all times, till your last breath. You will never make her a walking talking decoration of your or your wife's court, you will not make her your lover, unless she asks you to, and even then you will tell her that you're much older and she could find someone much better. You will accept her peculiarities, you will never ask her to change, unless her life and health depend on it. If you accept this price, then Matteo will be yours and yours alone and no one else would be able to play him better. You might as well ask to be buried with it for it will long for you and will ache for you after you're gone." _

_ The old man breathed heavily, his face was covered in red spots. _

_ "I think my mother would be a better guardian for your child…" _

_ "But you don't want me to make a theorbo for your mother, do you?" _

_ "I don't." _

_ "I don't want a guardian for my daughter, she could guard herself, she guards herself and her father. I want her to have a protector. I want her to live next to a person of your kindness, of your generosity. I myself have been lacking both for far too long… You cannot imagine how your calm and kind face makes me feel. You accept the price, as I can see." _

_ "Gladly. Wouldn't you miss her?" _

_ "For this I will have to be alive and I don't intend to." _

_ The Prince got up and put his hand on the old master's shoulder. _

_ "On my life, my honour, my dead children, my mother I swear to you that I will do everything you asked of me." _

_ "Oh you will," whispered the master. "You will, your grace." _

Ezra knew the story, knew how it would proceed and end, yet he couldn't help shivering at the master's last words. If there's an immortal idea, unforgettable at all times then it's death. The story had always been Ezra's favourite, yet he had failed to notice, maybe because of everything else that would transpire, how much of it had been claimed by death, by its acknowledgement, by the lack of fear in its face. The sheer resolve of the master, his at that point unashamed admission of having nothing good in his heart but his daughter who he was sending away almost frantically, it both enchanted and scared Ezra. It mustn't have taken him more than ten minutes to finish reading that first part, and now he could himself unashamedly admit that he was yearning for Crowley's company, just to make sure that he and his flowers were not negotiating a contract with death in exchange for craft, long life, maybe the ability to see colours. He rushed to the conservatory and found Crowley there screaming at his flowers.

"What are you doing?" Ezra asked, both shocked and amused.

"I'm screaming at my flowers. They are not at their best, and I will not tolerate it!" Crowley made a defiant pose.

"You won't… but they are flowers."

"And? They can't answer me and it's by far their best, most endearing quality. I didn't become a recluse out of the blue, you know."

_ I wanted to hold you then. -- You should have, angel. I would have loved it. -- No, my dear, not yet. Maybe I wanted you to yearn for me a bit more, but most likely I wanted to make sure that what I felt wasn't in its entirety a result of your story. -- It was. -- No, my dear. I think I came to you for comfort. Your stories never scared me, never pushed me close to the edge of an abyss, but I was in an unfamiliar house with someone I couldn't get enough of, and that someone was my only comfort. I didn't want to look into the abyss, I wanted to look at you and hold on to you, with all your colours, copper red and royal yellow and the darkest black, flowers behind you like courtiers, some loyal, some defiant, some traitorous, some genuinely concerned and friendly.  _

"Do you… tell me about their colours, angel, please. If you could…"

"What do you know about them, my dear?" 

"Their shape. I love their shapes, this is remarkable how many shapes a plant can take. I tell them apart by smell. The brain always finds a way to compensate for something lacking. My vision is… well, lacking. So I smell things better than most. I guess. Wanna see?"

"Yes," answered Ezra, not really knowing what Crowley had been talking about. 

_ It was a beautiful, breathless "yes", angel, and you should have answered so when I asked for your permission to kiss you and fuck you. -- Sorry, dearest, but you've never fucked me. You have always made love to me, and no, I won't argue. I've never felt more loved than I'm with you. -- Shut it, angel. I think you should get on with the story. _

Crowley closed his eyes. 

"Now, take me around, and I'll tell you everything."

"Only smell?"

"Only smell, angel."

Ezra turned him around several times and started walking with him.

"Sweet violet… Viola reichenbachian… Viola alpina… Viola canina… California golden violet… Viola lobata… Viola tomentosa… Aechmea… Portea… Elatior begonia… Begonia grandis… Begonia coccinea… Why did we stop moving?"

"I'm very impressed, Crowley."

"Well, then I'm definitely not done showing off."

"No, that's enough. Quite enough."

Ezra let go of Crowley's elbow and took a step back, away from him and his flowers, from his impossible, scary beauty. Crowley opened his eyes and looked at Ezra as if he had abandoned Crowley.

_ It did feel so, angel. You were so close, and then you were gone. I didn't like it. -- I didn't like it either, my love.  _

"What's wrong, Ezra? Am I too creepy?"

"Creepy? No, you're fantastic…"

They stood in silence for several minutes.

_ This is what kisses were invented for, angel. You should have just kissed me, there and then. -- I wish I could.  _

"Let's return to the library," suggested Crowley.

"Yes. Let's… Do you want me to read to you?"

"You're reading me. I can't say I enjoy my own work that much."

"We'll figure something out, my dear, I'm sure. What do you want to read?"

"To be honest, nothing. My head is killing me."

"Then you should have a nap."

"Well, then you could read myself to me. I'll fall asleep immediately."

It took about two sentences for Crowley to fall in Ezra's lap. To be quite honest, he didn't fall there, but Ezra pulled him there, and it was lovely at least for him. He didn't dare touch Crowley's soft hair, but he could dream of it as  _ the new obligations meant the impossibility of breaking off the engagement with another carefully selected princess who just as her predecessor was capricious and bored but was also of a mean spirit. The Prince was tired of the engagement and even more tired of marriage so he let himself be cruel and decided to share his deal with the princess as a sign of respect but the moment she wanted to answer him he raised his hand and commanded her to never discuss Amata, as he called her, for the old master somehow never cared to mention the name. _

_ It must be said that Lorenzo, Tomas and Timoteo barely let the princess touch them. Lorenzo the lute cut her fingers, Timoteo the archlute cut her wrist and Tomas preferred to fall and crack, to the great dismay of the Prince, rather than accept the new Mistress. _

_ Oh what a rebellion! The Prince almost enjoyed it as did his mother who fully respected the fact that she could only play a viola master Amati made in his young years and her late husband gave her as an attempt to make amends before his death. _

_ A year or so passed.  _

_ The Prince was dutifully present in his wife's bedroom, as for the princess she was brought up to expect nothing but admiration and tolerable intimacy and luckily didn't seek anything other than the company of admirers of both sexes.  _

_ Luckily, remarked the Queen, because this way the Prince couldn't blame himself for failing another marriage.  _

_ "But to be quite honest with you, my Lorenzaccio, they are both hardly worth trying."  _

_ "The first one is dead, and you are being cruel." _

_ "She is dead but she practically murdered your children and not out of passion, or some other Medean motive but out of sheer dumbness. Your current wife is very lively, I could give her that. We should join her, otherwise she would appropriate your audience." _

_ It was raining, and rain brought on melancholy and evening and a guest, both expected and unexpected. _

_ "My name is Amata Amati, your grace," said a young woman, wrapped in black, with an archlute behind her back, a visibly heavy bag on her shoulder and a theorbo in black velvet next to her. It looked as if the theorbo were holding the woman's hand and guarding her.  _

_ "Aren't you supposed to dress properly at least when you come to the royal court?" asked the princess. _

_ "You are very welcome, signorina Amati," said the Prince. _

_ "This is your instrument, your grace." _

_ "You must be tired. Please, let the Queen, my mother, help you and we will meet later." _

_ "As you wish, your grace."  _

_ The heavy shadow of the theorbo suddenly grew darker and the Prince stopped the Queen and hastily said: _

_ "No, it would be better, if you wait for me here." _

_ The court gasped, whispers crossed the room, the glances were thrown at the princess, smiling and indifferent, and at Amata Amati, serene and calm. _

_ "I'm a musician, your grace, and if you find yourself at a loss about how to treat me, then treat me as what I am, a musician. Besides her grace must have a lovely voice and I would be honoured to be her accompaniment." _

_ Thus the Prince heard for the first time his theorbo, his wife's indeed most charming voice and Amata's playing. That night he found himself less distracted when he was fulfilling his marital duties and the princess finally enjoyed herself. _

_ Next morning the Prince found Amata in his musical room. The Queen smilingly watched the young woman caress and fix Tomas.  _

_ "I didn't have a chance to tell you yesterday that this is your home and you're free to do whatever you like…" _

_ "I'm supposed to be at your side, am I not?" _

_ "Yes. That was the price." _

_ "Of the theorbo you haven't touched yet. I took the liberty of fixing Tomas, he was screaming." _

_ "I didn't hear." _

_ "Because you didn't play him after the fall. The Queen told me what happened…" _

_ "I did, my dear." _

_ "I feel like an idiot."  _

_ "You shouldn't. I'm socially inept. I need to occupy myself and… Still…" _

_ "Then I will…" _

_ "I know what the price was and please, my kind Prince, consider your price paid." _

_ "Thank you, master." _

_ "Thank you for recognising me as one." _

_ "Tomas looks very happy in your care." _

_ "As I am, caring for him." _

_ Amata smiled, smiled at the instrument but somehow so much of the Prince's life and experience found themselves reflected in this smile. Suddenly there was no torturing grief, no remorse, no guilt… _

_ The Prince looked around and saw that his mother had left. _

_ "What did he do to you?" _

_ "Who?" _

_ "Your father." _

_ "Oh, nothing, I mean, nothing you might be scared of. He loved my mother more than life itself, and he taught me to love life more than anything or anyone else, in all its complexity, all its Glory." _

_ "Why would he do that?" asked the Prince without really hearing what he was asking. _

_ "That's the way my mother would have wanted it, that's the way it should be. You see, my mother was always right." _

_ "As mine has been." _

_ "Precisely." _

_ Some time would pass before Amata would say: _

_ "Let's go home, let's go back where I came to you from." _

_ "For what, my love?" _

_ "For love. For the physics we are capable of inhabiting. For the opportunity to be together." _

_ "And my duties?" _

_ "They are fulfilled. Your kingdom is prosperous and peaceful, your advisors are kind and wise and just." _

_ "I don't have an heir." _

_ "You don't but you have done everything in your power to produce one." _

_ "Your father told me you were not to become my lover unless you ask me to." _

_ "I don't need to ask, you want to be my lover." _

_ "I want you to be my consort, my… my love." _

_ "I am your love. You have a wife." _

_ "A sterile wife." _

_ "Not good enough a reason to denounce her. I am not a good enough reason." _

_ "You're the reason to denounce anything as untrue."  _

_ "Your grace…" _

_ "Don't call me that, call me by my name." _

_ "Lorenzino, my love, my breath, my music, my craft, please, let's slip away, let's consider your duty fulfilled, let's go to a place where time had been conquered, tamed… Let's go there, back to the garden, back to the sick flowers of my mother's love for my father. Some day a child might walk out of those gates to claim their kingdom, but before that there will be love, there will be days and nights of pleasure, of fulfillment, of work, of music. Empowered by it our child will conquer their kingdom with a single glance, but I don't care that much. I care about you." _

_ Before that conversation was born and matured and arrived to the point of being ready to take place, so little happened and yet it took time, it took long lonely hours for both the old Prince and the young master. _

"You know," said Crowley sleepily, "I rather feel like the museum luring Curator deep within its galleries and halls, worrying whether the human might like it but nevertheless cherishing the fact that Curator is walking down those galleries and halls, maybe just as breathless and excited as the museum is allowing the human walk through its innermost places."

Ezra laughed. Crowley opened one eye and shut it immediately. He said:

_ "Curator was the first human to walk the museum to recognise it as something alive, not magical or cursed or vaguely demonic. Curator perhaps wasn't human enough to be surprised by the building being as alive as a tree, a snail, a mischievous youth trying their best to impress someone. Curator spent so much time finding traces of lives long lost in paintings, sculptures and monuments, that a living museum wouldn't be that much of a surprise. Curator just accepted it, first as a visitor, then as a passenger, then as a companion. Some nights rearranging and changing itself the museum thought that Curator was the companion all along, it just took the museum some time to recognise it, to recognise how remarkable, how endless, how ineffable was the architecture of Curator's soul. The museum never really wandered, it just moved wherever it fancied, but meeting Curator each day, the museum suddenly found itself longing for an opportunity to walk, to waltz down Curator's thoughts it had no way to fathom. _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

_ And now, angel, I want you to let me take the lead, show off shamelessly and praise your infinite sassiness. -- Well, my dear, if you insist. I must say I think I've been showing you shamelessly off, and you don't need to waste all that effort. What do you want to talk about? -- Spoilers. So, here comes a story of a walk, a picnic, a crow named Raven, of ogling a certain skinny rear, of an impromptu poem, field of violets and a fall. -- I'm so excited. -- I bet you are, angel. -- I bet I could have told the story featuring your skinny rear just as well. -- But you wouldn't have called it skinny, and it's my rear's only prominent quality. -- Very poor wordplay, darling. -- Shut it, angel, here we go. _

A few more days were spent in pretty much the same manner, with reading through the day, drinking through the night and napping at any given moment. Perhaps it was Crowley's way of dealing with a guest, or with liking the guest, or just to avoid staring at the guest while he consumed the food Crowley had prepared, and while Crowley was a good cook, Ezra was a good glutton. The inspiration Crowley got from Ezra's moans during a meal appeared to be unrivaled by even divine inspiration, not that Crowley had had any experience with it, but that was the way he had been thinking about it. Crowley himself rather enjoyed Ezra's cooking, but Ezra didn't moan when he cooked and didn't moan when he ate what he had cooked, so it must have been obvious that Crowley took it upon himself to prepare everything. Sometimes Ezra would pretend to work, and then, as soon as Crowley fell asleep, he'd take out one of Crowley's books and kept revisiting his favourite parts. Sometimes Crowley would pretend to work, and then Ezra was terribly tempted. He had discovered a long time ago that a person engaged in pensive writing (typing) or reading was the person at their absolute best, most opened, therefore Ezra wanted to read Crowley and watch Crowley write. As a matter of fact, Crowley was working on a book about baroque music, and Ezra would every now and then give in to temptation and stare at Crowley, which Crowley took as a reproachful sign from his editor.

"Too raw, angel, too early. You've seen enough of my shit, but it's shittier than shit at this stage."

"How come you can write so beautifully, insightfully, intelligently, and have such crude speech? It really is ineffable, my dear, that you curse so much and write so exquisitely!"

"Do you mean to say that cursing can't be exquisite?"

"Oh, of course it can be exquisite, but you don't curse in your books."

"I secretly hope to be considered a children's author."

"And just to be clear…"

"No, angel, please, don't be clear. You're ruining the purpleness of my chapter about theorbo."

Crowley built a tower of various books around himself and Ezra had to make do with reading Crowley's already edited and published works.

_ The Prince disliked celebrations of any kind, because, his intelligence regardless, the Prince could never accept the temporary nature of a feast. He would never want a feast to end - or to begin, for that matter. Amata shared this sentiment with him, which meant that every feast she organised, was an unexpected but quite logical follow up of the usual routine, a strange but in the end the only possible solution to all the problems that the day had posed. _

_ The princess loved Amata's feasts, as did the rest of the court. They were always an adventure, a journey which always ended in deserved joy, always made the traveller kinder. _

_ This kindness was more inherent to Amata's instruments than wood itself. Hers had names, too, but they also had families, she built them in families, and over the years her craft added up to her father's fame, thus making another family. _

_ What was she thinking about, though? What happened when she left her workshop and lied down? What did the clean darkness tell her? What did it show to her? _

_ Some nights I saw the sick flowers of my mother's grave. Some nights I saw my home, my father's workshop. Some nights I saw my own workshop and proudly thought of my work. Some nights I saw the fireworks I made. Some nights I hated myself and my hands and my stupidity. Some nights I read a book, although I always preferred to do it during the day, when the light would make my workshop so bright that everything, myself included, was lost in that brightness. Some nights I would see my protector, his kind face, his sad demeanor when he foolishly hopes that nobody can notice. Some nights I'd yearn for a conversation with him. Some nights I'd yearn for his company, for his presence, right beside me, in the very darkness that surrounded me heavily, so heavy it could have been mistaken for a human body. On such nights I'd burn, I'd find no rest for either my body or my mind. Through the years I discovered that such nights were the nights of the feasts, the nights I would fully know what exactly you would be doing in that very moment. Then it changed, I began yearning for you without knowing where you were and what you were doing. _

_ Much time passed but not enough for me to get weary or old, not enough for the Prince to forget his duties, his obligations. Jealous I wouldn't be, envious I wouldn't be, no, just yearning and burning, and turning it into good work. _

_ Sometimes I wouldn't be able to work, though. Sometimes I'd yearn and burn and scream into the brightness of the day, scream for his grace, scream for his love, scream for his presence, right there, right then. _

_ And then I realised he was screaming too, but the royal upbringing would not ever let him do it the way I would, he would not make a sound for it would be in bad taste, it might let someone know that he is unhappy. _

_ Matteo loved Amata, of course, but it was loyal to the Prince as the Prince was to his bored and boring wife. Matteo served the Prince's ears and hands and fingers, loving, tender service, but Matteo couldn't help melting into Amata's fingers, couldn't help sounding like an ensemble of conjoined siblings, an echo of an echo of an echo, multitude of voices in one. Tomas still loved the Prince, and was jealous of Matteo and found consolation only in Amata's hands. The Queen's viola Viola felt herself freed of any duty to the Queen and only hearkened to the young master's voice.  _

_ How swiftly and gently, how easily the time bent itself! The old age stopped, the pain stopped, the guilt went away, the disdain for the princess disappeared.  _

_ Amata would turn any worry into a thread and would turn this thread into a tapestry and behind that tapestry, during on of the transfixing celebrations she'd make, the Prince would find something he couldn't have possibly known he wanted.  _

_ Was it what you did as a child? Alone in that house, with your grief, your curiosity… Yes, your grace, this is what I did. I came to see the size of anything as entirely meaningless. One could build a kingdom in a room, in a moment of morning twilight. But for what? For spending eternity there and then destroying it with the noon army of busy and practical hours which one day would also fall at the feet of dreamy, prophet-like evening hours. I never asked you to do it, did I? What, my Prince? To make the music, to set the stage, to find a play and actors and authors I'm so jealous of, because you spend so much time with them and I'd love to know what you are talking about. I'm so sorry to hear it, my Prince, yet I want to surprise you, to bring you joy, and when I see you dancing and laughing and getting lost in my labyrinths, I'm happy. Why? Why would you be happy then, Amata? Because finally my airy kingdoms took form, finally I could send anyone there and see what would happen, to see your kindness strengthened, your courtiers’ minds sharpened, your princess’ spirits lifted. She is always bored, boredom is a vice. A vice indeed, my Prince, still I think that unless you have long and lonely hours of creation without any opportunity to occupy yourself otherwise, you can't properly learn not to get bored. I myself dedicate very little time to these evenings of joy and happiness, I have to deserve them, I have to look around and see that I have done something worthy, something good and therefore deserved the right of mischief. _

_ Amata, talk to me, don't leave me here, but the fireworks would begin and I'd see how from light and darkness the tenderness is born, the right of mischief… _

_ I'm glad to think that I don't spend my entire time making you happy, your grace. What a boring person would I be!  _

_ One night, when the Prince came to her bedroom, the princess asked wearily: _

_ "Just out of curiosity, do you have a lover?" _

_ "I don't." _

_ "Do you want to know, if I have one?" _

_ "Only if wish to tell me." _

_ "You're so kind. I don't deserve such kindness." _

_ "This is very unlike you." _

_ "I know. I've been in love with Edna, my lady in waiting ever since she became such." _

_ "My poor darling, my poor tortured sweetheart. You must have hated my visits, all those years of torture…" _

_ "You have always been gentle, I still have to give you an heir, otherwise you'll have to divorce me." _

_ "What for? To marry some other princess? I've done it before, I don't want to do it again." _

_ "Edna loves me too. I'm so, so happy." _

_ The Prince gently kissed his wife on the forehead. _

_ "Your secret is safe with me. I will not touch you again." _

_ "You will. I want a child, you need a child." _

_ That moment the Time suddenly straightened up, made a loud sound and the Prince felt himself locked in his palace, in his kingdom. Not only did he lock his wife, he locked himself, his birth imprisoned him. He couldn't spend the night with the princess and excused himself. He went to the cold darkness of his music room, and through it to the Amata's workshop. She was sitting there, a book on her working table, two candles in front of her, Cyrano, her archlute, next to her, apparently sleeping. _

_ Amata looked at the Prince. _

_ "Let's go home, let's go back where I came to you from." _

_ "For what, my love?" _

_ "For love. For the physics we are capable of inhabiting. For the opportunity to be together." _

_ "And my duties?" _

_ "They are fulfilled. Your kingdom is prosperous and peaceful, your advisors are kind and wise and just." _

_ "I don't have an heir." _

_ "You don't but you have done everything in your power to produce one." _

_ "Your father told me you were not to become my lover unless you ask me to." _

_ "I don't need to ask, you want to be my lover." _

_ "I want you to be my consort, my… my love." _

_ "I am your love. You have a wife." _

_ "A sterile wife." _

_ "Not good enough a reason to denounce her. I am not a good enough reason." _

_ "You're the reason to denounce anything as untrue." _

_ "Your grace…" _

_ "Don't call me that, call me by my name." _

_ "Lorenzino, my love, my breath, my music, my craft, please, let's slip away, let's consider your duty fulfilled, let's go to a place where time had been conquered, tamed… Let's go there, back to the garden, back to the sick flowers of my mother's love for my father. Some day a child might walk out of those gates to claim their kingdom, but before that there will be love, there will be days and nights of pleasure, of fulfillment, of work, of music. Empowered by it our child will conquer their kingdom with a single glance, but I don't care that much. I care about you." _

_ "Amata, I can't. It's so unlike you, to ask for something I cannot give." _

_ "It's unlike me to do something we both consider dishonest." _

_ "Precisely… When I met you once, during one of your magical feasts which make my advisors and courtiers so kind and wise, I hoped we wouldn't recognise each other and then I understood that it was impossible, that even not knowing you is impossible, everything about us is impossible." _

_ "What would you do if you didn't recognise me? If I didn't recognise you?" _

_ "I wish I could forget my whole life, even you, and then I'd meet you and love you and stay with you, if you let me. The princess has been hurting during my visits, she was in pain when I tried to put a child in her, always. I knew she didn't enjoy it most of the time, I didn't like it either…" _

_ "She doesn't like men." _

_ "How do you know?" _

_ "I see. Ask her lover to help you." _

_ "I don't understand." _

_ "Ask her lover to join you two in bed." _

_ "Would you join us two in bed?" _

_ "If you want me to, if it helps you to make her pregnant, to make her a regent and finally rightfully grow your cabbage." _

_ "I can't rightfully grow my cabbage, I can't leave my duties. I can't however much I want." _

_ "Look at me." _

_ "I always look at you." _

_ "Look at me and tell me, when you are old and senile, when Matteo falls silent in your fingers, and you still have no heir, and I still am master Amati, watching you die, watching Matteo not being able to die but longing for it out of love and grief, then what would you say?" _

_ "That I wasted my life and your love." _

_ "Then find yourself the heir, mentor them, set the date and leave this place, with me. Otherwise, Lorenzo, I will leave and since you are bound by your word, you will leave with me." _

_ "How fearful you are, Amata, right now, how strong." _

_ "I am. I loved you for your kindness, please extend that kindness to me." _

_ Lorenzo went to bed in the music room, Amata's hand in his hair, and when she knew he was fast asleep, Amata took Matteo and made him into a human.  _

"Angel, stop reading about master Amati. She's a scary woman. How about we go for a walk? It hasn't been raining, and we haven't been using the opportunity to crawl out of the house. We can have a picnic!" Crowley seemed either excited or worried, but anyway as he walked out of the library, apparently to prepare and pack the picnic to which Ezra hadn't agreed yet, his pelvis lost the last connection to the rest of Crowley's body and just sauntered on its own. Ezra saw such anomaly only once, the day they had met and rightfully interpreted it as a sign of overwhelming emotions. Who would have thought that history of baroque music could be so unnerving? 

When Ezra found Crowley in the kitchen, he was already packing. "I decided we'll prepare sandwiches and suchlike on the spot and I prepared a thermos with tea, and I'm totally ready to go. How about you?"

"My dear, is everything alright?"

"Yes. Sure."

Crowley wasn't alright. Crowley allowed himself a few moments of staring at Ezra as he was reading, and Crowley had to agree with Ezra's theory of beauty revealing itself in reading (he couldn't agree about writing, he wasn't that vain), and the whole sight destroyed his peace. That man, and no, no, no, don't quote Whitman again, please, but yes, yes, yes,  _ that man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,  _ and besides,  _ The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. _ Dear Mr Whitman, you had your fling with Wilde, they say, so please let this pendulum of a writer pine in his own words, thank you very much. 

Ezra looked at Crowley, wondered a bit and made a wicked decision to flirt with Crowley all through the walk and especially the picnic, so he hid something in his backpack and caught up with Crowley pacing his front porch.

"Yes, ready? Good! Why backpack? I have a backpack, you don't have to take your own backpack."

_ Dearest, you are adorable. I love your rumbling. -- You make sure I do it a lot, angel. -- Of course! I love it!  _

"Oh, but what if we are out of tea? It's very important to stay hydrated, my dear."

"Angel, let's just go, ok?"

"Lead the way, Crowley."

"Yeah, yeah, no fun if we get lost immediately."

Crowley walked them through the garden making a point of stepping on yellow grass while Ezra carefully followed the path and avoided the grass. Out of the garden and down the hill, then onward and onward. After a few kilometers Ezra carefully asked about the picnic.

"We've barely left the house, angel, patience. Oh… are you tired?"

"No, just wonder where you are taking us."

"Good place. Really. It's a shame it's Autumn, really, violets there are fucking awesome!"

"No doubt." 

Crowley stopped and took a look around. Ezra, standing a few steps behind him, tilted his head and allowed himself a pleasured smile. Crowley turned his head.

"Angel, my eyes are up here. I know it's a bit confusing, what with the glasses…"

If Crowley hoped to embarrass Ezra, he failed. 

"But my dear, you go so fast, too fast for me, if I may say so, and I have to admire what I get to see."

Crowley blushed and swiftly turned around and kept walking.

"Don't try to embarrass me, Crowley. I have a wonderful collection of erotic literature."

Crowley made some strange noises. Ezra smiled smugly.

"You're a bastard, angel," said Crowley affectionately.

"Doing my best here."

"Making me blush like a bloody school boy!"

"Compared to me you are a schoolboy. Blush, dearest, brings your hair."

"Angel!"

"How can you roar a word that doesn't have a single  _ r _ ?"

"I'm very talented, angel."

"I know. I didn't know you were so talented with your tongue."

"Angel!"

"Alright, I'll stop."

Crowley took a turn and Ezra had to stop, because in front of them opened a field of dry flowers. 

"Here. The violets. They are not violet anymore, and well… but it's still beautiful." Crowley walked forward, found a place that found favour in his eyes and sat down taking his backpack off of his shoulders. "So, I brought pastrami, some bagels and…" Crowley looked up having heard a popping sound. Ezra had opened a bottle of champagne. "Ngk," observed Crowley.

"There you go, dear boy. I'll make the sandwiches."

"But… how come… you won't moan if you make them!"

"I won't what?"

"Nothing." Crowley took a generous swig from the bottle. "Wicked angel."

"Why, doesn't it please you, my dear? I bought it for you on my way here, and forgot about it completely."

Crowley took another swig.

"Easy, my dear. I want some too."

A bottle of champagne, a few bagels with pastrami and a container full of berries later, Ezra and Crowley were on their backs among the dry flowers. Ezra carefully turned his head and watched a smile slowly blooming on Crowley's face, against the seasons. The air and the wine and the food had made Ezra rather light-headed and so he let the precious stupidity flow out of him in the form of words.

_ we walk up to the mountains _

_ field of flowers _

_ violets  _

_ the hour early _

_ and the air purple _

_ one moment _

_ proper violet, the next _

_ as flowers rise beyond the mountains we _

_ heads, hands, backs, mouths, feet _

_ descend into the violets and here _

_ the violets form clouds, peaks and seas _

_ it's dim this evening of a morning hour _

_ I speak of fractals, of entire life _

_ within one hour _

_ and within each minute _

_ another day within another day _

_ up in the violet mountains many mornings _

_ have moved from dawn to sunrise then to noon _

_ and down here a flower moves like moon _

_ within this hour hidden centuries _

_ I spend under the violets turned trees _

"I love what champagne does to you in the morning, angel," said Crowley in a hoarse voice.

"Come on, my boy, make me a morbid poem too."

"I rather liked yours, angel…" he smiled tenderly and brought Ezra's hand to his lips. "I think you did beautifully, angel, and I'm so grateful to you for getting us slightly sloshed seven kilometers from home at ten in the morning…"

"We were only moderately sloshed yesterday evening, and went to bed early, I can't see why not…"

"Tsk, angel. Don't. You're losing your grip… I've never written poetry, and I liked yours." Crowley's cheeks had to hurt from so much smiling. 

"Crowley?"

"Hm?"

"Are your eyes closed?"

"They aren't, angel. Need to admire what I get to see."

Ezra laughed, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Crowley wanted to do something stupid, but Ezra had already composed a poem, and a kiss wouldn't beat that. Moreover, regardless of all the flirting, Crowley couldn't be sure, couldn't make the effort to roll over in the flowers and kiss his guest, if only because he felt sweetly numb. 

"Angel, how long will you stay with me?"

"I closed the shop for ten days, it's been five."

"I see."

"Am I too much, my dear?"

"You are not fucking enough, angel, I think."

"Then we have five more days, and we'll see what we'll do next."

"Purple one moment, proper violet next…"

"Oh, don't tell me you memorised it on the spot. Now it will haunt me."

"I wouldn't miss an opportunity to outsass you, angel."

"You outsass me by calling me "angel"."

"It's low-grade sass that for all its worth quickly increases your tolerance to sass. Again, as the good editor said, I have to admire what I get to see."

"Alright, we're done here," Ezra hastily got to his feet and lost his balance in the momentum. Crowley was in the process of getting up and making a peace offering to gravity but Ezra ruined the negotiations (and Crowley) and fell on him. Their noses bumped.

"Well… that… that's unexpected… not unwelcome, but…" Crowley stopped talking and thanked heavens for the refuge his glasses provided.

"Are you alright?" Ezra asked making no attempt to move again.

"Sassy angel… Heavy one, too, but I don't mind."

"So Gabriel was right?" Ezra wiggled a bit getting more comfortable on Crowley's angular form.

"Gabriel is never right… Angel… Ngk… Shall we…"

"Shall we what?"

"I'm open to suggestions, you know."

"I could get up."

Crowley whimpered and Ezra took it as a negative response.

"I could say thank you… for the rescue."

"Don't say that." Crowley had trouble breathing, but breathing was overrated.

"I could kiss you."

"Not gonna go there…"

"You're right, my dear. Angel, rectangle, probably we'll explode."

"I'm not a rectangle!" Argued Crowley and tried to move. He couldn't, but he didn't dislike it. 

"You are flat and very angular… So sorry, my dear…"

"Don't be sorry, please. If what it takes for you to land on me is a fall, then… I sympathize with your pain but you don't seem to be overall uncomfortable, and…"

"I want to kiss you, very much. Would you mind?"

"Kiss me, angel."

Ezra smiled and closed the remaining distance between Crowley's lips and his own. It was short and could even have been considered friendly. 

"You are beautiful," whispered Ezra. Crowley bit his lip. "Are you crying, dearest? What have I done?"

Crowley brought his hands to Ezra's face. "Where have you been? Why have you left me alone for so long? Why haven't you ever told me that anything is so much better with you?"

Ezra held the younger man and rolled them over, letting Crowley hide in the crook of Ezra's neck.

"It's alright now, dearest. I'm here."

"You are here for five more days! You… and you… you… will go back to your life, and I had… I didn't know… and you just… with your curls and eyes and smile and sass and cream coloured clothes. And…"

"Sh, sh, dearest, I've got you."

"And… and you'll leave, you'll never…" 

"Let's get you home, darling."

"What? Why?"

"It's not very comfortable here."

Crowley stood up in one swift and not entirely human movement. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologise for, my dear." Ezra was still on the ground propped up on his elbows. Crowley rubbed the wet blotches under his eyes.

"You are beautiful, and I wish I had known it earlier."

Crowley whimpered again. "Need help, angel?"

"Oh, yes, I'm an old man and I need all the help I can get…" Ezra finally got to his feet and took Crowley's hand. "Don't think for a minute that it's any easier for me than it's for you, dearest. I had to drink champagne in the morning and you kissing my hand was far more than I planned. I hoped to hug you on the way home."

"Sassy angel."

_ Curator knew that the museum was upset because overnight it would reorganise itself in circles and break all the lights. Curator learned that no amount of convincing could be enough, so one day he let himself get lost in the coiled galleries and gently stroked a wall. It sighed (or maybe even sobbed). "Oh you marvelous creature… Whatever upset you so much?" _

_ The walls bent inwardly as if taking a deep breath. "Was it because of that loud tourist group?" The walls straightened up and the floor under Curator's feet trembled. "Oh, but they will never come back. You scared them, sweet darling, don't you worry." The whole gallery trembled. "Really, my dear. What is it? Have I done something?" The museum stood still and Curator realised that the building had been breathing all along, because now some crucial background noise was missing from the air. _

_ "Is it because I was offered another post? But I could never even think of leaving you? Who will take care of you? Who'll listen to you? More importantly, my dear, who will listen to me?.. No, rest assured, I will never leave you. Breathe now, alright? I'll stay with you forever, and when I die, I'll come back and haunt you." _

_ Dearest, and what about the crow named Raven? -- Oh, it's just a crow really. Something to intrigue you. _

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

"What colour are your eyes angel?"

"Blue my dear." 

"How… What is blue? How… how does it taste?"

"Like water, very cold, very still."

"You never look cold, angel. But you are still… And how does it sound, blue?"

"Like Beethoven's Fifth, the third movement."

"How does it smell?" 

"I don't know, my dear." 

"Well, then I say it smells like you. You, my angel, smell blue. It's delicious, and so are you… What colour is the sky now?"

"Let me think… It definitely smells of you, and it definitely has your hair texture and tastes like… like our first kiss a few hours ago."

"That's very unscientific, angel. But I don't mind. I do mind that you are not even looking at the sky."

"Why should I? I have you right here, hiding from the sky."

"Do you think you could move in here, with me?"

"I think that it's not the question that can be asked after quite some time of love-making."

"If I ask you some other time, you might consider the fact that I'm a recluse who lives in the dark."

"I might consider that you are painfully lonely, that you may not want a much older man in your life, that said man may appear truly boring when he's not trying to flirt with you."

"Your flirting comes naturally, angel. You flirt with me when you just sit there and read."

"I can't be that good, my dear."

"Oh, you can, angel."

"Why… why did you even invite me here?"

"I told you. I wanted to meet you, it seemed such an oversight that I'd never met you. I wanted someone to talk to as well. Is that so bad? You accepted it."

"I was curious, and I love your writing."

"Don't flatter me, angel."

"I will."

"See, sassy, flirtatious, and an absolute natural at that."

"You're incredible, my dear… Nobody touched me like that, nobody cried in my arms, and I wouldn't ever think to consider it a good thing, but with you it is."

"But you don't want to move in with me?"

"Darling, I told you this. You go too fast for me, my sweet boy. I need time to make a commitment… And if I make it, I'll make it forever."

"It doesn't sound as scary as you intend it to, angel."

"I don't want to scare you, but I wouldn't pull you out of your life to join me, and I'm asking you to give us both time."

"Alright, angel. Whatever you want."

"I want you."

"What? Again? You are incorrigible, angel, I… I like you a lot."

"I like you too, my sweet boy."

_ Curator kept his hours, his routine was precious to him. The museum once or twice coiled itself around Curator's house, and Curator didn't like it at all. So at night the museum was naughty and mischievous, moved the artifacts around and reimagined its architecture and sometimes dreamed, but as of the moment, it was well past midnight, and Curator was disheveled and drunk and sat on the floor of what was El Greco's room but the museum quickly rearranged things so that Curator was sitting in his favourite Velasquez' room. _

_ "Thank you, my dear… You know I do have life outside your walls. It definitely sucks, but I have it. I have friends, I go on dates… Oh, stop shaking like a jealous teenager. You are an old building and if you happen to have a soul of a… of a petulant young person, then it's your problem." _

_ The museum huffed and moved the El Greco's room back to Curator. _

_ "Here, told you, petulant… We can't even talk, I don't know how to call you, and if I just call you "museum", then it's ridiculous…" _

_ There was a whiff, a swift movement of air around Curator. _

_ "I'm too drunk to consider it possible for you to say my name. You don't even have a mouth. Nothing to kiss… and if you animate a statue, then it's still not you… it can't work out. You are a building, I am a human. We are… we are on opposite sides! How come I even talk to you?" _

_ Curator suddenly was in the office. _

_ "Oh… so very petulant… or maybe you know me so well… know how much I fancy a nap here, on my old sofa, in my office… I cherish your mischief, darling, I do. It hurts me to know we can never be together." _

***

The morning found Crowley alone in his bed. He shuffled and tossed and turned and found out he had to wake up. The room was dark and empty. The house was quiet, and Crowley was pleasantly sore. 

"Angel?" 

He could see quite well in the dark, and the remains of his newfound happiness were everywhere, in his sore body, in heavy lustful air in the room, in the indent of Ezra's head on a pillow next to Crowley. The door opened, Ezra stood there like an apparition, grey and pale.

"Angel, what's wrong?.." Crowley jumped out of the bed and ran up to his lover.

"My house, my whole collection has burnt down. Gabriel called about an hour ago. I'm going back to London."

His voice was dead, his bright eyes that had brought colour to Crowley's eyes were dull and dim. "My plane is…" He broke down, sank to the floor and sobbed. Crowley held him, pulled him closer, allowed himself to wrap his ridiculous limbs around Ezra's soft, beloved form.

"I'm so sorry, angel, I'm so sorry… Where… where will you stay there?"

"Gabriel and Bea… I… Could you…"

"Of course. I'm getting dressed and I'm taking you to the airport."

"Thank you, my dear."

"Nevermind… Angel, oh Ezra, darling, may I come with you?"

Ezra looked up at him, surprised.

"I want… I would like to be with you now. You know, for richer, for poorer."

"Crowley, I'm honestly not ready to discuss our amourous plans now."

"No plans, angel. I want to be there for you… No, that's not right. Would it be easier, just a tiny bit easier for you if I were with you through it all?"

"I… I wouldn't want to impose…"

"You're not imposing. I love you, I want to help you, if I can. Do you want to stay with Gabriel and Bea?"

"No, not at all."

"Look, I have a flat in central London, my posh uncle left it to me. Haven't been there for years, but… you're very welcome to stay there, with or without me. You are welcome to have it, if you like."

"My dear, really, this is too…"

"What do you want, angel? Apart from being there when it all went down in flames, my brave librarian of Alexandria."

Ezra chuckled. 

"Come with me, Crowley. Please, come with me. Stay with me."

"Of course, angel. My honour. Get your things to the car, grab some food and order a ticket for me, ok? I'll be with you in no time."

_ "That's what you have opted for?" Curator yelled, heartbroken. "To just burn down? To let yourself be consumed by your unnatural passion? You're not even supposed to have passions, you're not supposed to feel anything, you're just stone and metal, how dare you?" _

_ He was being told that the building hadn't burnt down, that the firefighters arrived on time and that the damage was minor, but Curator couldn't hear a thing. "You… what do you want? What is it that you want? I love you, you stupid building, I can't sleep properly far from you, outside you! What have you done to yourself? What have you done to me? Heal! Restore everything, restore yourself, ghost your breath down your halls and galleries and rooms! Move somewhere! Don't be dead, please, don't be dead! A soul can't burn, can't… you can't… you can't leave me!" _

Somewhere in Ezra's dreams, buried deep and almost forgotten, there was a dream where he was sitting next to his lover in a car, and his, Ezra's, hand was on his lover's knee, sliding ever so carefully and lovingly up his thigh. As it were, Ezra's lover was driving and his hand was on Ezra's knee. Crowley talked to an operator and made sure they both had first-class tickets, then there was a very rude but by the sound of it absolutely normal conversation with Gabriel about the flat and an old Aston Martin Crowley's very posh uncle had left him too.

"Are you coming to London with… is Ezra with you?" Gabriel asked.

"He is, and he will be as long as he will let me be near him. Flat. Car."

"Taking care of it. I'm your lawyer, not your… anything."

"Flat. Car. I'm still not over what you told Ezra."

"Oh come on, he knows I love him."

"And it's of no consequence."

"If you break his heart… he's perfect, do you know that, you posh bastard? A perfect Jew, a perfect brother, a perfect husband…"

"Hey, asshole, stop with your Song of Solomon, I know. I'll never break his heart. He's sitting right beside me, and if I ever get a stag party, then you'll be the only person invited, and we'll talk about your gorgeous brother, but for now he's lost everything, and I want to be near him, so flat, car, fuck those bastards from insurance thoroughly and completely, and I might be ready to meet Bea."

***

Out of pure instinct, the moment Gabriel spotted Crowley he covered Bea's eyes. They snapped their hand away.

"You've never told me how hot he was," remarked Bea. "But I suspected… oh, you idiot, I can admire someone's ass while being loyal to yours, dickhead!"

"Hi, Bea," said Crowley casually and shook their hand.

"Hi, Crowley. It's an honour, and you've picked a fucking awful moment for it. Hi, Ezra. I'm so, so, so sorry."

Ezra was engaged in a bear-embrace with his brother. Gabriel appeared to be crying.

"Let's get you guys home," said Gabriel finally. "The car is here. Bea drove it. Hope you don't mind."

"If Bea is driving, I can't mind," replied Crowley with a shrug. "They made me rich."

"Made myself richer."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you. We'll better be going, I guess. Angel?" Crowley was holding both their bags and looked at Ezra expectantly.

"I'm hungry," said Ezra.

"Oh… oh… " Gabriel stuttered. "I… made dinner. Thought you'd want to stay with us."

"No, staying with Crowley."

"Ah… alright. Crowley can stay with us too, you know, although the flat is fine, I hope. Didn't have time to check, you know."

"Whatever Ezra chooses."

"Ezra is choosing the most available dinner," replied Ezra. 

_ It's still difficult for me to talk about it, my dear. -- Then I'm sorry for having brought it up. We could just skip it. -- I don't want to skip it. I was obviously unhappy and angry, and yet when I remember it now, I loved having you with me. I loved that you stayed with me, that you were near. I had known you for mere days, and there you were, constant, loyal, close. You were mine, however little I acknowledged it, and for that happiness I would have gone through it all again. I should have known you have been the only part of life I could ever be afraid to lose. I even think I knew it, deep down. -- Angel, you shouldn't say such things. -- I should, I am, I will be. I had you and I have you. Nothing else should have mattered… But I was talking about time. It took on a different quality since I met you. It's rather… condensed. Each minute is worth a day, and each day equals a year, so I had known you for years long before I could say so without raising a few eyebrows. _

The dinner was silent and delicious. None of the four knew whether talking was necessary, and even if it was, then no one knew what to talk about.

_ "Tell me something, my dear," begged Curator with his head against a charred wall. "Tell me something, in any way. Tell me something… I can say what I want to hear, but you'll have to say it to me as well… Please… Tell me…" Curator caressed the wall getting soot all over the fingers. "Tell me, "You petulant old fellow, I've loved you with all I had, I've cherished you and humoured you. I will be yours, I'll remain yours till the last of me is nothing but dust, but my dust will love your dust. I'll miss you when you're gone, I miss you every night when you are not here. You old fool, just stay here, stay with me, become one with me, you'll never miss a thing again…" Curator sobbed and rubbed his eyes which immediately itched with soot and salt of Curator's tears. "There must be a way for you to tell me… I want to hear it. I want to know it."  _

_ The museum shuddered, its floors and walls shattered, it coiled around Curator, its endless spaces warped and twisted, condensed around the human in an embrace. "That's it, love, just like that," whispered Curator and fainted. _

"I have a request," said Ezra after dessert. 

"Anything, angel," replied Crowley.

"What he said, totally," agreed Gabriel.

"Could you read to us, my dear?" Ezra turned to Crowley who was sitting next to him. "Or will it be too painful for you?"

"I'm… if you want me to read me, I remember it, so no, the pain will only be spiritual," he smiled meekly."

"I know you are unwilling, but could you do it for me?"

"Maybe back at your place would be more appropriate and reasonable. It is rather late, and we are having a very difficult day tomorrow." Bea never spoke with concern, so Gabriel looked at them surprised.

"Yes, I think that's the best." Ezra nodded. "Pardon me…"

"Don't apologise, Ezra. It's alright." Crowley stood up fishing for the car keys in his pockets.

"Thank you for dinner. Thank you for… being with me." Ezra smiled so politely and at the same time so sadly, that Gabriel grabbed him for another bear hug.

They drove to Crowley's flat in pensive silence. Ezra felt exhausted, and his hand laid on Crowley's knee without actually taking hold of it. Crowley was focused on driving, wincing at the street lights.

The flat hadn't seen an occupant in quite some time. It was cleaned and the fridge was full of Ezra's favourite delicacies, the bed was made, but it had a feeling of an abandoned hotel room. The space lacked memories, smells, sounds that only a lived-in space had. "We'll need to fix it," said Ezra. 

"Fix what, angel?"

"How… empty it is. It doesn't smell like a flat. Like someone's space. Let's change it, let's fix it. Come to me, my boy, I need you so."

_ The celebrations, the feasts, the joy Matteo brought to his parents, to the kingdom was beyond words or festivities. He was too curious and sad for the princess' taste, but she did give birth to him, in a way. The Queen loved him, the Prince loved him and Amata loved him, though painfully.  _

_ Sensitive and sweet, kind and thoughtful, Matteo couldn't have been any better, any more fitting for the job he was destined to take over from his father. _

_ Who was his father, though? The bitter old Amati? Lorenzo whose love Amata wanted so much she made a human out of the theorbo that bought her safety and freedom?  _

_ "We could never leave, my Prince. I could never leave him." _

_ "I know, my love. Neither could I." _

_ "Then it was all in vain, wasn't it? We will always be impossible." _

_ "I stayed with you that night, and every night afterwards. Tell me, was there a price for what you did?" _

_ "Apparently there was, because I cannot leave him and go back home, go back with you." _

_ "You told me then that one day a child might walk out of the gates of your house and conquer their kingdom with a single glance. All that Matteo did. " _

_ "He wasn't born out of my love, out of my longing for you, or out of your love and longing for me." _

_ "He was born of your will to have a life with me, a blessed life of everyday happiness, of pleasure of each other's company. My princess wife is happy with her lady in waiting, and a caring guardian to Matteo, no one would judge me, no one dares to judge you. I think they are too scared to judge you." _

_ "Scared of what?" _

_ "Of your intensity, your craft…"  _

_ "Only you know how Matteo came to be." _

_ "Yes, and the princess even remembers how easy her labour was." _

_ "It was easy." _

_ "As easy as anything non-existent would be." _

_ "No, Lorenzino, we are non-existent and that is not easy. There is no proper physics, no enough knowledge to make what I strive to achieve, happen. It used to be your reasons I respected and then ignored, now there are mine you respect and can't ignore because you share them." _

_ "Then why don't we treat this whole situation as a complex phenomena? Here it is, you, me, Matteo, the princess, my endless responsibilities…" _

_ "Stop, stop. This is too complex for me." _

_ "Yet I see a solution in your eyes, I just can't read it." _

_ You see, Lorenzino, my love, my breath, my craft, this phenomena being too complex requires long research, an opportunity to try out the options and so I will struggle with it, with packing for a night and then I will show you the result. _

_ Somehow I know that at this point nobody can ask me for a price. Nothing can ask me for a price. I am that which I will be.  _

_ That night the Prince was quietly awake, some tender fear kept him awake but in the morning it turned out that he had been sleeping and dreaming he was awake.  _

_ Amata handed to him an archlute, no, the archlute, it was Cyrano. The Prince carefully took the instrument. _

_ "Now, the whole phenomena is inside, and when you play, everything will happen according to your will. As for me, I swear to never play it." _

_ The Prince looked around and saw that they were sitting in the gazebo where many years ago he had made the deal with Amata's father. _

_ "They are all alive and well. Listen." _

_ Inside the archlute the Prince heard the sweet and serene voice of Matteo, the voice of the Queen and of the princess and her lover, of his courtiers, of his people, prosperous, peaceful and calm. The sea sent its pitiless breath and rosemarine dew to the wide opened windows of the royal palace. There was music, exciting preparations for a feast, Matteo laughed. _

_ "Do they know about us?" _

_ "They certainly do. If you ever want to join them…" _

_ "No, no, I want to join you, I want to stay with you." _

_ Amata kissed him on the lips. _

"Yes, darling, this one. I wanted to hear you telling it to me." Ezra nuzzled Crowley's neck and held his lover tighter. "What will you tell me now? Could you make me a story?"

"Or I could make you come, angel."

"You did that, my love. You were glorious. Tell me a story, condense the time around me, make me a kingdom in a lute."

"Angel, who do you take me for?"

"That which you are, my dear. Make me a story about us."

_ I like to think I'm still making it, angel. It's ongoing. It steers aside every now and then, but it's ongoing. -- I do hope so, my dear. I was obnoxious that night. -- You couldn't have been lovelier. You were mine, angel, open, vulnerable, pliant, and so I made you a story. Could never refuse you a thing." _

_ The Poet came to Estherbad because Estherbad had a reputation, or as less sceptical minds would say, history of miraculous recoveries. The Poet, although full of energy, ideas, projects, although mischievous and flirtatious, was constantly tired. He tried blaming it on work, but work had always been the cure, the remedy. He tried blaming it on his age and this theory was quite believable but only for the inability to disprove it. On the other hand, the Poet knew of countless examples of energetic old men and women who never lost their vigour, which didn't really help, because there was no proof he was one of them. The Poet could always find something he lacked to be considered such an old man, and after all, he didn't want to prove anything neither to the world, nor to himself. He just wanted to feel better. _

_ Estherbad was beautiful, had a very good botanical garden, a decent library (the Poet though always travelled with an indecent amount of books and would hardly have needed a library), a vivacious society of lovely men and women - and those who were not lovely, could not have possibly shown it in front of the veneered man of letters (art, drama, science in the broadest sense of the word) - so it only seemed reasonable to the Poet that enjoying himself more than he used to in a neighboring Kurort combined with the professed miracles of the Estherbad waters (air, botanical garden, spectacular balls) would help him recover. _

_ Moreover, this summer, the Scientist (anatomist, mathematician, physicist, theologian, philosopher) also came to Estherbad.  _

_ The Poet and the Scientist had been friends and in some way rivals for countless years. About twenty years earlier, the Scientist left the Town and his estate near it to marry a woman much younger than him, rich and beautiful Alma, whose inquisitive mind and amazing talent for mischief enchanted the Scientist. He hadn't even thought of asking her to come to live in his estate, for she loved hers too much. Thus the Poet was left to his passionate and somewhat tortured friend, Another Poet, who became a tolerable substitute for the Scientist.  _

_ Another Poet died, which was only natural, considering his lack of restraint, both emotional and physical, and age. Alma, the Scientist’s youthful and happy wife, also died, leaving the Scientist a daughter, whom he named Henry, for knowing the ways of the world, he realised that this intelligent and serene girl would have to fight every stereotype, every cliche made about her sex. He wanted to spare her at least that.  _

_ The Poet knew only that much, and he wouldn't have noticed Henry, if she had stood so close to him, he would have felt her breath on his cheek. The Poet, waiting for the Scientist's arrival, made himself several friends and lady friends, one of whom, an old love interest of his, had herself had a daughter, Ulrike. Lively and lovely, carried away by anything worth being carried away, be it science or poetry or language or kisses, might as well be the reason for the Estherbad's reputation, such an impression she made on the old Poet. _

_ Widower for many years and a father of an only son who managed to survive childhood, the Poet suddenly began to think about marriage. Of course, his drunkard of the son and his arrogant and pompous daughter-in-law, who married the Poet's son because she had been assured that that way the Poet had chosen her, would make the life of Ulrike unbearable, but the Poet was sure that he would be able to handle the situation. He had handled it against the whole Town and his illustrious friend, the Countess, when he began living with the woman of lower birth and much lesser wits who in time became his wife. After all, the Poet didn't have any doubts in pleasure of his company, his kissing skills and the feelings of his beloved. She would be happy, they might still have children that she would help raise to be a lesser disappointment than his son turned out to be. _

_ Ulrike’s mother was more than distressed. Still considered a great beauty, she had hoped for the Poet herself. Her daughter's happiness was of little concern to her, her daughter's feelings she knew to be nonexistent, for the Poet had not been the first (or the last for that matter) she teased with her liveliness and quick wit.  _

_ A few years passed. Each year, coming to Estherbad, the Poet found himself more and more in love. His days were blissful and happy. He spent the mornings with the Scientist, who apparently came to Estherbad only for his old friend, being himself of excellent health, and evenings with Ulrike. _

_ The Poet called for his benefactor and friend, the lascivious Prince, who being quite frankly dumb, was still smart enough to surround himself with great people. The Prince came, the Prince went to Ulrike's mother and returned with a crashing refusal. The Poet tried talking to Ulrike himself, but she was obviously tired of him, of his old age, of his greatness, and above all she didn't want to marry anyone. Her youth, considerable means, free spirit provided her with enough joy, and unlike the Poet, she couldn't find joy in life without a proper stimulus from the outside. She needed music to dance, as the Scientist muttered, carefully and pensively, when his friend had told him about the girl. _

_ "If it is of any consolation, my dear friend, I would gladly give you my daughter's hand in marriage, as well as her virtue and what not." _

_ "Which she wouldn't want." _

_ The Scientist coughed politely.  _

_ "Why do I never see you daughter?" _

_ "She is a hermit. She quickly realised that no one would want to pay any attention to scientific pursuits of a woman and refused all small talk for its tediousness, so she let the whole world call her crazy and peculiar at best, and buried herself in books, gardens, horse breeding, corpses I gladly share with her, because she has a much keener eye, than I do… I make her go to a ball here and there, but she comes back so sad, so sad, I can't find any courage to keep doing it to her. When we are here, she leaves at dawn and goes into the mountains, returns at sunset, happy, dirty and with a bag full of butterflies, bugs, flowers and once a bloody snake." _

_ The Poet coughed politely. _

_ "So, I don't know about her, but you wouldn't want to know her, even for you she is too…" _

_ "Peculiar." _

_ "Precisely. I'm glad I managed to make you think of something other than dark-eyed charms of your lover." _

_ "Thank you. What now?" _

_ "For you? Countless infatuations which you know so well to turn into poetry, countless conquests, love and admiration of many a lovely woman and many a lovely man." _

_ "I thought, I deserved a companion, someone close to me, someone I would want to be close to." _

_ "This indeed doesn't happen a lot." _

_ "It happened to you." _

_ "Once, and I lost her within a year." _

_ "The last love… It must be easier to find a partner in your old age, the expectations are lower." _

_ "I wouldn't call your expectations low. Your lady love shows interest in everything you find interesting, she listens to you, and her eyes sparkle when she does… That's a lot." _

_ "Thank you for listing all the things I have so unexpectedly lost." _

_ "You’re welcome. Order is my strongest suit." _

_ "I wish you returned to the Town, honestly." _

_ "Oh, we're planning to. Henry has apparently discovered everything she could back at home, we travelled a lot for the last several years, she wants something new, which is very uncharacteristic of her, and I want some place that wouldn't remind me of Alma. I found out it's unhealthy. Actually, Henry found out. She is my physician, after all." _

_ "Your daughter?" _

_ "My daughter. I'm proud to tell you that it is my daughter who all our servants and tenants prefer when they are in pain." _

_ The Poet coughed politely. _

_ "Some of them left their bodies to her for the future discoveries. She loves a familiar corpse." _

_ The Poet laughed. _

_ "Good. You're laughing. Now, we're returning in December, around solstice." _

_ "So, you'd come and visit me?" _

_ "Of course I will. I might as well buy Another Poet’s house, his family, I heard, is striving and thanks to Henry, I'm much richer than I should be." _

_ "Be careful, the Prince might talk you into investing in some of his most ridiculous projects, and he might do it without my knowledge, because he knows I wouldn't approve." _

_ "Thank you. So, I'll see you in December. Probably I will try to bring my daughter." _

_ "I will be happy to meet her." _

Ezra laughed, peppering Crowley's chest with kisses and then nuzzling his neck again.

"Really, my dear? You made me a story about Goethe?"

"I don't see why not, angel. I had loved him for years before we met."

"And now the time is different. Tomorrow you and I are going to see the charred remains of what I considered my life, and you know what?"

"What, angel?"

"You are my life. I wasn't there, I didn't die before meeting you, before finding you, knowing you, your taste, smell, touch, sound and colour. I will mourn it… I am mourning it, it feels a bit empty…"

"Should I take you again, angel?"

"Better not. Love-making is wonderful, doubly so with you, but the best part, with you, is after. Lying next to you, holding you, tasting you still on my lips, being with you on the other shore of intimacy, beyond doubt, time, circumstance. So here, on the other shore, far from any other physics that may exist, tell me a story, my dear. Tell me a story of an aging bookseller and a brilliant writer who loves him and who is so loved in return…"

"Angel… angel, you can't say things like that and expect me to not take you again. I want you, angel. I will always want you."

_ There once was a prince and he loved his books, he loved his garden, he had good looks, but you can't care for his good looks yet, can you? It went like this, just bone and skin, sharp cheekbones and a blinding grin, and anyone who saw him hallelujah'd. He had no friends and he needed none, a librarian walked in on him in his garden. The Prince was smitten, but really, what's it to you? He stood up and he wiped his hands, he soiled his garments and took a chance and mad in love he whispered "hallelujah". The librarian smiled and took his hand, he nodded and said he was glad to find the Prince alone, and he asked "are you?" He kissed his lips and pulled his hair, he fell him on the grass and there he drew from Prince's lips a hallelujah… _

"Now, who's smitten, my dear?"

"I am, and I can't see how you can doubt it."

"Go on then, my love."

_ There was a man and he loved his books, he made the books his livelihood, but you don't really care for books now, do you? It went like this, a smile, a look, a vague request and the right book, the baffled reader yelled out "hallelujah". There was a day that it all burnt, the man was told to make peace and learn, but he could never make peace with it, nor should you. He walked up to the Prince and saw a wicked grin and the sharpest jaw and to himself he whispered "hallelujah". _

"I'm not inspiring enough, my dear. I should let you sleep, but I demand a story about us. I lived without you for so long, I want your tales to make up for the lost time. Could you do that for me?"

"Anything you want, angel."

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

_ I'll tell you a story, angel, any story you want to hear. I'll make it for you, I'll weave it like Penelope, because I waited for you for so long I had forgotten that I had been waiting for you. Any story you like, angel, anything you want for just another kiss like that… _

Ezra caught him in the dark bathroom, half naked, shaving, water splashing as he dipped the razor in it washing away the hair. Scrub, scrub, scrub, get rid of it all, lest it rubs Ezra the wrong way, make his skin all itchy for all the wrong reasons, make his soft, gentle thighs a prison wall all covered in desperate etchings and pleas…

_ You are getting carried away, my dear. -- I am. I want to. I love you. -- Oh dearest. -- It was the morning I saw everything you cherished and loved in ruins, charred, deformed… -- You are missing the point, my dear. The moment I saw it, I knew it hadn't really mattered. My work had been in my computer and it was with me. My clothes could be easily replaced, and I found myself looking forward to going shopping with you. -- You are rushing forward, angel. -- So what if I am?  _

Crowley lifted the razor to his face and felt Ezra's arms around him.

"Morning, angel. How are you?"

"Sore," a kiss, "sleepy," another kiss, "so happy," two more kisses, Crowley's shoulders, between his shoulder blades, "so wistful," one more kiss, again between his shoulder blades, "woke up and you weren't there, and my gentle serpent, my golden snake, straight out of Goethe's tale, was gone."

"I just was here, shaving…"

"A-ha," Ezra breathed against Crowley's nape. 

"Angel, either I cut myself or you let me finish and then I'll see to your every need."

"Every need?"

"Absolutely."

"Well then, finish shaving," he hid his face on Crowley's back and didn't move for a few more minutes.

"Here. Done."

"What are you in the mood for now, my dear?"

"Seeing to your every need." Crowley turned around to face his lover.

"Want you inside again. Want your lips, tongue, mouth on me. Want to hold you against the bed and ride you until we have to leave."

"Angel…"

"It has nothing to do with the bookshop, with my house, with anything I had been before you, and everything to do with how much I need you."

"You have me, angel."

"Then do as you've promised. See to my every need."

_ I made you breakfast afterwards. -- You know, dearest, you are so incredibly caring. I felt safe with you, I felt soft and tender and warm and sore with you. I don't want to walk again without the pain you leave when you are done… when we both are done. -- Angel, you can't… you… so open, so, so, so open and near, and… I hate seeing you walking around like this. I'm afraid of every rub your gentle heart gets touching anything that's not me. -- Nothing can touch me but you, my dear. I understood it that day. _

"What about my story? Who, what would you be, my sweet, in another world?"

"I'd be a greedy old dragon sitting on its treasure and fiercely guarding it, until I learned that you had been the treasure and I wasted so much time guarding something that needn't have been guarded."

"No, make me another one."

***

The remains of Ezra's house made no visible impression on its owner. He nodded, he signed what he had to sign, he suggested that the four of them had lunch together, and Gabriel was too shocked to refuse him. 

"To us," Ezra raised his glass. "To losing all the unnecessary shit and realising that I got to keep everything I truly need."

"That's incredibly… healthy," remarked Bea.

"Well, maybe I am. If everything is settled with the insurance, I'm rich enough to do as I please."

"Which is?" Gabriel asked carefully.

"I'll let you know, brother, don't worry."

After lunch they went to the National Gallery, and after that Ezra asked Crowley to take him home.

"Now my dear," said Ezra once they were inside. "What do you think?"

"I think I love you, angel."

"The feeling is mutual, my love. What shall we do about it? I have nothing that keeps me here, and you…"

"I want you to come back to Sils Maria with me. Live with me. Stay with me. Marry me."

"We met a week ago."

"Fuck it. Marry me."

"I'm much older."

"Marry me."

"I'm quite boring."

"Marry me."

"I love you so much it shouldn't be legal."

"Marry me, angel."

"Of course, dearest. But you'll never be able to get rid of me."

"Don't intend to. Marry me."

"I will, Anthony. I will marry you. Tell me a story."

"I'm afraid I only have more Goethe fanfiction for you, angel."

"Alright, but make it about us, won't you?"

"Who gets to be Goethe?"

"Neither of us deserves the honour, but give it a go anyway, however you like."

_ They said the Poet never received visitors if the visitors were inquiring after his art (the word always made the impeccable man of letters spit out, and he was in quite a trouble, for he was very proper). He was the first minister of a small kingdom stuck between two bigger kingdoms, and he cared much more about building good roads, creating a fair tax system, making sure every woman had a midwife nearby and a physician at hand and fanatically setting up libraries everywhere, than about poetry. The kingdom prospered. Its drunkard of a Duke was smart enough to realise he wouldn't have done a quarter of what his older friend had done, so he made sure that every whim of the Poet was immediately seen to. Frankly, the Poet had rather few whims, but they had always been peculiar. The Duke brushed off all the complaints and said it hadn't been for them, mere mortals, to decide. Their job was to make sure the Poet had everything he might want or need. _

_ Yet the Poet was also just that, a poet, a man of letters, and what letters they were! He was popular before he reached his thirtieth birthday and by his fiftieth had become a legend. He had a circle of close friends, none of which could satisfy his desire for a sparkling conversation, for witty remarks, for sheer audacity of thought. The Poet was too old to complain about it and too modest to admit, even to himself, that he had no equal, no rival, nobody to share his deepest doubts with. He was truly alone, but being kind, he would always put up a smile and let everyone bask in his company, while he was left to bask in their adoration.  _

_ He had taken a few lovers through the years, and they had brought nothing but a bitter disappointment. He used to have a childhood friend, but he had left the country many years ago to marry his love, besides said friend was the first to realise that nobody could keep up with the Poet, and admitted to it. Their familiarity, the friend's open acknowledgement of his lack of proper wit had been a dear source of consolation for the Poet. He couldn't hope to be challenged, but he allowed himself that semblance of friendship. Only his friend wouldn't flatter him, wouldn't try to replace a discussion with a stream of praises and compliments. Letters didn't allow for such a waste of paper. The friend's love died giving birth. There had been no Poet in her land that would have seen to a midwife or a physician at hand, and all the wealth (they had quite enough for generations to come) couldn't buy proper care in the moment of need. The friend avoided mentioning the child, so the Poet hadn't even known whether the baby survived. He couldn't find it in himself to pry. He knew he'd be talking only about his child, had he had one, but he was peculiar after all. He despised astrology, magic as a replacement for medical care, set incredibly high standards for scientific research in his little kingdom and had no problems with allowing medical students to work with corpses, and it turned out that a clear explanation of benefits that might come from an autopsy sufficed to convince most people that saving another life by opening up a corpse was quite worth it. Moreover, the Poet allowed women to do whatever they wanted, and after a few years it was noticed that marriage didn't disappear. The Poet, being himself inclined more towards the men, made it possible for people like him, of both genders, to reside in his kingdom and severely prosecuted anyone who would argue. Severe prosecution implied a long conversation with the Poet behind locked doors. In the most hopeless cases the person might find themselves in exile but never for more than five years of cooling experience in some other kingdom, where good doctors were few and taxation wasn't remotely fair.  _

_ In short, life was tolerable at worst and fulfilling at best, and so it had been going until one day a young physician appeared in the kingdom's best university and took it by storm. He was but a boy of eighteen, but his knowledge of anatomy was unrivaled, he comprised a magnificent anatomical atlas with unnervingly good drawings in his third year. He was unbelievable, and being socially inept, rather unpopular among his peers, which didn't prevent them from using the fruit of his knowledge. In his fifth year, he proposed to study morphology not only by dissecting a corpse but also by building a body part back from scratch. He introduced his meticulously detailed models and showed no interest in anything but teaching someone else to make such models. By that time the Poet had been trying to meet the young man for years. He began to feel pity towards those of his visitors who sought his attention to talk about art (he couldn't believe he allowed himself such an admission). The young doctor's name was Corvoli, and he wouldn't see anyone, be it God, Satan or the Poet. His mentor, Dr Beelzebub just shrugged. "I can't make him do something he doesn't want, can I?" Said Dr Beelzebub. "If you want to meet him, your excellency, you'll have to come to his lecture." "Why, does he give lectures already?" The Poet exclaimed. "Well, we've got nothing to teach him, but he has a lot to teach about, so… he insists that it's not true, but to give him a proper lesson we have to spend more time in the library than he does, and it's a hell lot of time, your excellency." _

"How is it going so far, angel?"

"Wonderful. Keep going. Tea?"

_ The Poet was at the boiling point. His curiosity wasn't easily sated, but then again, he had not yet been teased and tempted so much in his life. He decided to attend one of Corvoli's lectures.  _

_ The Poet was hopeless when it came to two things - good wine and hiding. He couldn't hide even if his life had depended on it. He had standards, and those standards implied he had to dress in light coloured clothes and wear pretty silver shoes. Also, he had bright blond hair and kind beautiful eyes the colour of the sea at twilight. His form was pleasant to look at, and one had to be blind, deaf and most probably stone cold dead to fail to notice and admire him. He didn't find it necessary to be unnoticeable, especially if he had to sneak to a lecture of a splendid young doctor. He didn't sneak. He was far too dignified and, frankly, far too handsome to contain it.  _

_ The youth didn't look at the audience even once. He had long copper hair and his eyes were covered by tinted shades. He was so thin that most people got a nasty cut just by looking at him. "Eye condition, examined it myself," whispered Dr Beelzebub to the Poet. "Is it bad?" Asked the Poet with too much curiosity to be remotely polite. "Well, his eyes are as pretty as your silver shoes, but more on the aging gold side. He never shows them to anyone."  _

_ So it began with a secret, and the Poet should have been worried, no good had ever come of secrets, but the lecture was wonderful, had the Poet thinking, wanting to argue and listen, his slumbered mind was being poked mercilessly and he felt deliriously happy. That young man with auburn hair and obsidian robes, he was the devil himself, the mischievous demon the Poet would dream about for years to come.  _

_ Corvoli pulled out a beautiful hand, a model, and began dissecting it, layer by layer, skin, muscle, bone, all the while asking the most peculiar questions, demanding comparisons and metaphors, and then he slapped his books and notes and looked up, pinning the Poet to his bench with his unseen glance. "This here," said Corvoli with menacing quiet, "is pure poetry. Everything in our bodies rhyme, even our diseases have their own harmony, and that's why you can never hate the disease. Admire it, it has its own life, it fights for it, and you fight against it, but only a foolish warrior will fail to admit to their enemy's wit and strength. Admire it and learn from it. Banish it in the end, if you can, but always remember it." He nodded, letting the audience know that he had finished and the Poet was on his feet the next moment applauding. The rest joined him. Dr Beelzebub could only sigh and take the Poet by the elbow to introduce him properly to Corvoli. _

_ "I see your excellency cannot be easily dissuaded. Well then. It's an honour," he bowed. "The honour is mine, my dear. I'm sorry I had to sneak in, but I would like to request your permission to attend your lectures." _

_ "It would be distracting, your excellency. You steal the room the moment you enter it, but since you look like an angel, you are forgiven immediately… You have anemia, your excellency." Corvoli stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out an apple. "Pomegranates and oranges would be more beneficial, but alas, I only carry apples around. Come on, take it." Corvoli's fingers brushed against the Poet's. "Lovely meeting you. Have a good and useful day. Dr Beelzebub," he nodded at his mentor and was about to leave, his hips swaying as if he had been drunk, but turned around and returned. "You did have the rod of Asclepius, didn't you?" _

_ The Poet went pale. Dr Beelzebub gaped in shock. _

_ "I don't remember ever telling this to anyone… It was a gift from a dear friend. I gave it away." _

_ "You what?" Corvoli smiled. Dr Beelzebub pointed at him and yelled, "You smiled! You never smile! What's happening?" _

_ "I gave it away," repeated the Poet softly. "There was a student here, a long time ago, and just like you she had come from another country where she had had no chance to ever become a physician. She opted for returning to her homeland and try and change things there. I wanted people in that dark place to trust her, so I gave her the rod." _

_ "You are an angel, your excellency. I'm so glad to have met you." _

_ "Does it mean I can come to your lectures?" _

_ "Hold your horses. I can gladly give you my notes." _

_ "Come to my house, my dear, come whenever you like." _

"Stop."

"Oh… what's wrong, angel? Too much? Too self-serving?"

"No, no, my dear. I'm your lover now, not your editor. Just… let me look at you like that, quiet and thinking. I need to make an etching on my bloody excuse for a heart."

"Angel, how many times do I have to tell you that you can't just…"

Ezra was kissing the breath out of him, pulling him closer and closer still, basking in his warmth and bones and skin, all of it, the poem of the body, a long, strange, otherworldly epic poem, Beowulf of him against Rabelais of Ezra. 

"Right… Where were you, my dear?"

"Ngk… egm… In Heaven, I guess."

"Then return immediately and go on with you story."

_ Corvoli wouldn't come, didn't come, probably hadn't considered coming. The Poet was a bit frustrated, a bad look for such an illustrious man. He even took a lover to take his mind off of the young doctor, but to no avail. Reduced to a pile of admiring goo, the Poet's lover was just as boring as the rest of his lovers had been. The Poet deserved better. He sneaked in to another lecture. _

_ "Cancer was described for the first time by the Egyptians. They advised cauterization of breast cancer and in general agreed that nothing could be done. Hippocrates was forbidden from dissecting corpses, so he could only examine visible rumours. We are better than that. Hippocrates was the first to compare cancer to a crab or crayfish. Galen discovered that tumours could be malignant or benign. It has been recently discovered that cancer can spread and lead to what is called metastasis. All of it is remarkable in its own right, but we still know nothing about the cures. Cauterization doesn't necessarily help. Nothing we know helps. We are standing here in the presence of the emperor of all maladies. As all emperors, it's relatively rare, and as with all emperors, it can affect anyone. It's whimsical, it's nightmarish, it deserves your utmost attention. If nothing can be done, it doesn't imply we shouldn't study it. Emperors are overthrown, humiliated, defeated and murdered. They are mortal, and so is cancer. Cancer is your Grendel, Grendel's mother and Fafnir. Just like you can't bargain with something otherworldly - for what could you possibly offer? - you can't bargain with cancer. The only problem is that cancer is not otherworldly… " He stopped and paced the floor for a minute or two of uncomfortable silence. "From my own observations I can only say that cancer is rarer in children than in old people. It affects any of eight genders described in the Talmud. It affects people of all positions and virtuous and sinful alike. Cancer, if you think about it, is as fair as the Greek notion of fate, but if we haven't discovered the reason yet, doesn't mean there isn't one. For now it remains… Ineffable." He went on, his drawings of different tumours made rounds in the auditorium and returned to him. He looked grief-stricken, and the Poet, scared at first, found himself in desperate need of calming him down, of giving him some consolation. He couldn't think of anything besides an embrace, though. _

_ "I see your excellency is as stubborn as he is admired. Are you admired for your stubbornness?" _

_ "I'm very sorry to see you so affected, my dear. I really don't know what to tell you, how to take this grief off of your shoulders." _

_ Corvoli took a frantic step back, as if pushed away. "Don't… you can't say things like that." _

_ "Whyever not, my dear? You seem to be… grieving." _

_ "I'm not. Not yet, anyway." _

_ "You know my friend wrote to me that he had been suffering from the same affliction… Oh my…" _

_ "Yes," admitted Corvoli with a sad smile. _

_ "Oh my dear… pardon me my obliviousness… but why would you avoid me then?" _

_ *** _

_ Corvoli could have told the Poet many things. Could have told him he was writing his father's letters to the Poet since he was six, or could have told him he had escaped his suffocating surroundings to do what he had always wanted to do. He could have admitted that he had never seen such clear, intelligent gaze, that each movement of the Poet seemed to him as sharp and precious as his words had been for as long as he could read. He could have whispered that he'd love to watch the Poet just sit there and look at him, or that the moment the Poet said he had given away his most cherished possession Corvoli was irrevocably heartless, his heart, half in the Poet's hand because of his words alone, was now fully at the Poet's service. He wouldn't have allowed himself such thing.  _

_ *** _

_ "He hasn't ever told me a thing about you!" _

_ "He didn't… he couldn't know how you'd react. He didn't know how to react." _

_ "To what? Having such a wonderful, intelligent, beautiful son?" _

_ "I'm not beautiful," replied Corvoli automatically. _

_ "Yes, you are… whatever happened, my dear? Would you like to join me for supper and tell me everything over a delicious meal and a bottle of good wine?" _

_ Corvoli could never deny him anything, but it was a new discovery, so he appeared to be quite lost for words. _

_ "Please, my dear. Don't me make me beg. I most certainly will, if you refuse." The Poet pouted. No poet was good enough to describe the irresistible force of the Poet's pout. _

_ *** _

_ "He's dying. Since he's no longer in the condition to protect me, he chose to… ignore when I left. He had always told me that here I will be safe." _

_ "Whatever it is, my dear, I see no reason for you to be afraid. You are welcome in the country, you are welcome in my house and at my side." _

_ "Just because of my father?" _

_ "Well, it certainly adds to the appeal, but someone as intelligent as you are is always welcome here… They get so boring, my dear, you have no idea. I can't recall anyone I've met who made me think as much as you do." _

_ "That's a very high praise, your excellency." _

_ "Oh please, don't call me that. I'm not to be admired by you." _

_ "What if I do?" _

_ "Well, then you'll have to let me admire you as well… What is it, my dear? Have I said something wrong?" _

_ "Why are we dining alone?" _

_ "Because I don't want to share your company. Or to be shared, for that matter." _

_ "You'll despise me the moment…" _

_ "I'll never despise you, my dear." _

_ "Want to bet?" _

_ "Sure, my dear. You'll lose." _

_ "I'm a hermaphrodite." _

_ "And?" _

_ "Seems I've lost the bet." _

_ "You most certainly have. Now, please tell me about yourself. Anything you want. Your genitalia is of no importance, and your identity is of the utmost importance, but you should tell me anything you want." _

_ "Because of my father?" _

_ "Because of who you are! A brilliant scientist, a wonderful physician, the most beautiful human I have ever seen!" _

_ "That must be wine speaking." _

_ "I don't give a damn. I might not be that relaxed in the morning, but it only means…" _

_ "What? What does it mean?" _

_ "You might run out of my house and leave me forever, if I say it." _

_ "Want to bet?" _

_ "Well then…"  _

_ The Poet stood up and moved his chair closer to Corvoli. He sat and took Corvoli's hand. _

_ "When the wine wears off, when it's blindingly bright and deceivingly clear, I might think I have no reason to allow myself such conduct… but as of now I'd want nothing more than to kiss you, to take you to my bed, to spend the night with you, to listen to you… As of now I couldn't care less for your age or mine, for your father or my position. I want you. I want your love. It seems you are in need of love, and I've wasted mine on people undeserving of it. I've wasted my time and charm on those who could never truly enchant me, and then you came. Smart, beautiful… my dear, you are so, so beautiful… tell me, please, what matters. Whatever it is between your long legs that seem to have a mind of their own, whatever it is on your chest, it only matters, if you choose to mention it. I'll have to learn you, to study you anyway. I care for you. I want you. You are what you say you are." _

_ Corvoli looked at him in awe. _

_ "How… how can you say things like that? Is it because you are sloshed?" _

_ "I'm sloshed, therefore I can feel bold enough to talk to you the way I'm talking to you now." _

_ "Then in the morning you'll regret it, won't you?" _

_ "Then in the morning I'll hold you and kiss you and ask how you've slept. I'll apologise for being so straightforward. I'll ask what you'd like for breakfast. Whether you've enjoyed yourself." _

_ "Why are you tempting me? To humiliate me once you can fully see me?" _

_ "Oh my dear… Whatever have they done to you? Whatever have they told you? Has nobody told you how wonderful you are?" _

_ "I'm an abomination." _

_ The Poet didn't care much for other people's stupidity, he squeezed Corvoli's hand and leaned in closer, his breath the gentlest caress on Corvoli's face, his sea-eyes darker and bluer than the brightest night, his bare foot casually touching Corvoli's suede shoes under the table. _

_ "Tell me, my dear, what is it you want?" The Poet whispered. "Should I kiss you silly? Should I ask you frustrating questions? Should I touch you? Should I have the honour of making you scream my name and fall apart in my arms? What is it you want? I have always had others admiring me and praising me, and I couldn't care less. I want to admire and praise you till the sun comes up and then some. I want to only be able to scream your name… No… what is it you want?" _

_ Corvoli pulled his hand out of the Poet's grasp and stood up, his chair falling. _

_ "You'll see me and hate me!" _

_ "Bold words, my dear." _

_ The Poet regretted it immediately. Corvoli undressed by what seemed to be a barely noticeable movement of his shoulders. _

_ "Now what? You can be sanctimonious and flirtatious and whatever you choose…" _

_ "God, you are beautiful… good Lord! Where… where have you been? Why haven't you come sooner? Why has your father hidden you from me?.. oh darling…" _

_ He moved closer to Corvoli. "Listen… I've been treated as a god-like creature for so long… let me use some of it on you. You are beautiful. You are impossibly, painfully beautiful. The perfect human, the perfect scientist. If you want to spend the night talking about malignant tumours, I'd cherish it as much as each of your kisses… Dearest, where have you been?" _

_ Corvoli could no longer remain straight… _

"Oh, what a stupid pun, my dear. Really."

"Hey, I'm making myself as embarrassed by your words there as I am here…"

"I'm not doing my job properly. You are my treasure. I wish I had known you forever. You make me human, you make me happy, you make me so full of joy!"

"That wasn't "joy", angel."

"Yes, it was. Everything you give me, a glance, a kiss, your seed, your tears, everything you give me is joy to me. I love you, Anthony. I'm not the perfect lover, and you make me feel like one. I'm not perfect, in general, but I'm complete with you."

"Angel… angel, I've done nothing to deserve you."

"Listen, my love, and listen carefully. I'm stupidly in love with you. I'm smitten, I'm elated, resurrected, sailing the crest, anything. Delighted, content, happy, so irrevocably happy with you. I was born for you. I grew up for you. I learned to read for you. I read for you. I edited you, and oh my, what a blasphemy! I'm yours, but more importantly, you're mine. Mine, mine, mine. Whatever have I done to deserve you? I love you so much, I'm barely able to wait until ten, twenty years will have passed, and you'll wake up in my arms, I'll wake up in yours, we'll wake up together and go through the day together. You'll tell me stories and I'll trim them, you'll grow a forest and I'll turn it into a park… or I won't do any of it, just… just will have you for my own."

"Angel…"

"Oh stop it! I will say whatever I want! Go on with the story!"

_ Corvoli woke up naked, which hadn't happened since his father had managed to explain why he had to be hidden and protected. He (he only used "he" because he didn't know what else to use) was pressed against broad and warm chest, his neck was tickling with someone's breath, and he was sore with love and crazy in love and the whole night fell on him like he had fallen on the pile of his clothes. _

_ "Good morning, darling," said the Poet. "It's still early, you are not late for anything… How did you sleep?" _

_ "Ngk… imtnrle… well, I guess." _

_ "Glad to hear it. And how do you feel?" _

_ "Ehm… loved, thoroughly." _

_ "That's what you deserve, my sweet, my beautiful, impossible darling. What would you like to eat?" _

_ "Ehmm… idntlgot… I don't know? Not hungry. Could eat you, though." _

_ "My naughty sweetheart. I'd like to do the same… How are we going to solve such a problem?" _

_ "Oh, I don't know. You are the one mad about geometry." _

_ "Mad about you, my sweet love. You had the audacity to keep yourself far from me, and now I'm going to have my revenge." _

_ Corvoli shifted to lie on his back and look at his lover. _

_ "Tell me I didn't cry all night through, angel." _

_ "You did, but those were happy tears. Tears of pleasure, tears of love. I'll never let you come back anywhere else but here, do you know that?" _

_ "I wouldn't want to come back anywhere else but here, do you know that?" _

_ "I do know. And… I've never known who I have built this small Heaven for, and now I do. I've built it all for you. It fits, just like your endless sharpness fits with my softness, just like your knowledge and passion fit with mine. We rhyme, my love, and I'm the Poet only because I found that perfect human I rhyme with, and you were right, always right, my love. Now, I want to be able to tell my servant what to make for breakfast." _

_ "Is everything about food for you, angel?" _

_ "Of course! Food has everything! It tastes, and so do you, it smells, and so do you, it sounds when you chew it, and so do you, and even if you don't know what colour my eyes are, I can always describe it to you in terms of taste, smell and sound. Or how it feels to touch it… You, my dear, feel like an apple on the outside, and feel like a pomegranate on the inside. Now, what would you want for breakfast?" _

  
  
  



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